Blended
by jelenamichel
Summary: The slow and roundabout way in which coffee brings them together. T/Z friendship, eventually turning into something more.
1. Daybreak

**A/N: I have a stack of one shots on my hard drive. I have been living in hope that they'll magically turn themselves into full length stories while I'm not looking, but they haven't. I'd still like to share them though (and get them off my hard drive), so I'm brining them together here.  
>So that they're not completely random I'm adding a common thread to them all: coffee. Have fun with them.<br>Warnings for the occasional swear word.  
>Disclaimer: Disclaimed.<strong>

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><p><strong>Daybreak<strong>

They're good at silence. Well, she always has been. He is generally only good at it while in the company of the handful of people he is completely comfortable with. Ziva happens to be one of those people.

At 0600, though, she could probably be anyone and he still wouldn't talk to her. He's been awake for 23 hours now, and so his ability to form sentences is essentially limited to "Real big cappu-thingy with three, um…" (this is where he pauses to mime pouring sugar out of a sachet) "…please?"

Fortunately he has just enough presence of mind to aim this at the girl at the register at the coffee shop rather than his partner. Not that Ziva would have been offended, but he doubts she would have done anything with his request. She's doing her own impersonation of a zombie after placing an order for a "Very long black", and he's sure that used up the last of her strength.

He counts…well, not an exact number because that would require effort he can't spare, but a ballpark figure of _a lot_ of people waiting for their orders ahead of them, and so he grunts at his partner. She slowly blinks up at him as he cocks his head towards an empty bench, and then silently follows him over. His descent to the seat is more of a collapse, but the wall directly behind him prevents him from falling backwards to the floor. A moment later his left shoulder assists the wall to keep Ziva upright. She lands with a soft '_oof!'_, crosses her legs and arms, and then rests her cheek against his shoulder. Her slight weight pushes him to the right until his other shoulder finds another wall. Their combined dead weight settles, and then they just sit. No talking. No playing with smart phones. No moving. Just sitting.

The urge to close his eyes and catch a few minutes' sleep is strong, but at this point he knows there will be no such thing as _just a few minutes_. If he closes his eyes now he will fall into a coma from which he will not rouse for eight hours. And so he drags his eyes around the room in an effort to keep his last few functioning brain cells sparking.

There are plenty of agents and other agency staff in the coffee shop. By the look of their bright eyes and neatly pressed clothes, none of them have pulled an all-nighter like him and Ziva. For a few long minutes, he envies them. It's not that other teams don't work hard, or put in long hours. But they certainly don't seem to do it as much as Team Gibbs. People on other teams are almost guaranteed to see their own beds every night. And their kids and spouses and dogs…Hell, they probably even have time to _walk_ their dogs with their kids and spouses in tow. And they probably have their meals at regular times and get to see the sunshine in summer independent of a dead body lying under it and _ohmyGod_, he is _so_ _exhausted_ right now.

He attempts to swallow moisture back into his mouth, but his voice still cracks when he uses it. "I'm gonna quit," he mumbles to Ziva. "FYI."

After a few still and silent seconds where he wonders if she fell asleep against his arm, the toe of her boot barely taps his ankle. He thinks if she were even five per cent more awake that probably would have been a kick.

"No, you won't," she mumbles back.

He heaves an epic sigh, and even if he had been thinking seriously about it before, her half asleep grip on him is enough to change his mind. He grunts his acceptance of the facts. This is a good place for him to be. He just wishes he got to see his bed a little more.

"Very long black for Ziva?" one of the baristas calls out. "Really big cappu-thingy with three for Tony?"

He smirks. That barista, Poh, has been taking their orders for about a year and a half. She's a college student, pretty, bubbly, and harmlessly flirts with him most mornings. She catches his eye from across the room and lifts both cups at him in case he didn't hear her. Tony can only nod in return. He'll get there eventually. He just needs to coax his core muscles into lifting his torso upright before balancing Ziva against the wall, getting to his feet, pulling Ziva up and walking across the room to pick up the cups.

God, that sounds like way too much effort for right now. Maybe a five-minute nap really will help. Ziva isn't making a move either, and he thinks it's possible that she's already asleep. Maybe if he just took a long blink…

"Hey."

His eyes snap open and he focuses on Poh now standing in front of them. She's holding both cups, and the smell is enough to get him to lift his head. She smirks at him with a mix of amusement and sympathy.

"Hi," he croaks.

Poh holds out both cups to him. "You guys work all night?" she asks.

Tony nods and reaches out for the coffee. He'd make a pithy remark about her detective skills but that would require higher brain function than he currently possesses.

"Well, at least you're suffering together," Poh says with a shrug, and then turns and heads back to the counter.

Tony stares at her butt for a few too many seconds before rediscovering discretion. Ziva is still a dead weight against his arm as he brings his coffee to his nose and inhales deeply. He feels a buzz in the back of his head—the imminent release of endorphins that will reward his surrender to another hit of his drug of choice. He wishes that someone would invent a safe way of injecting caffeine directly into the eyeball for an immediate pick-me-up, but alas, he must accept the slower method of absorption through the stomach. It's better than nothing.

As Ziva lets out a faint snore Tony closes his eyes and tips a mouthful of liquid smack into his mouth. _Fuck, yeah, that's the stuff!_ It roasts his mouth and throat, and since he hasn't eaten anything for about ten hours he can feel it travel all the way down to the pit of his belly. He can't work out whether the feeling is pleasant or disturbing, but as long as it wakes him up it doesn't matter.

After another two gulps he regains the ability to turn his head and look down at the messy mass of Ziva's curls. He smiles, and thinks of another blessing (after coffee) to count today: a tired Ziva often means a disheveled Ziva, and these days a disheveled Ziva equals curls. The day is looking up.

He shifts a little on the bench so that he doesn't break his arm when he waves her coffee under her nose. "Hey," he says to her, and because he's out of hands he stretches his neck so that he can nudge the top of her head with his chin.

Ziva takes a deep breath, and a moment later she's reaching for her coffee with both hands and a very un-Ziva-like whimper. She drinks from the cup like she's been dying of thirst, and soon she manages to sit upright on her own. For a few minutes they sit and sip in comfortable silence, and he begins to feel merely tired instead of exhausted. Ziva places her cup on the bench beside her before arching her back and lifting her arms to the ceiling in a graceful stretch, and he slumps back against the wall again as the full force of appreciation hits him in the chest. Curls and stretching? The day is _definitely_ looking up.

She picks up her cup again and turns a tired but warm smile on him. "Let's go."

He nods, and is only mildly irritated when she gets to her feet without even the slightest hint of age weighing her down. She hooks her hand into the crook of his elbow and pulls him up, and even when he's barely awake he still likes it when she manhandles him. Poh catches his eye as they follow a slow path towards the door, and she looks between the two of them with a smile he's still too tired to analyze.

"See you both again in a few hours?" she calls out.

Tony throws her a thumbs up before reaching around Ziva's shoulder to push the door open for her. Although the sun now shines, the birds sing, his partner's hair is curly and his outlook is generally much better than it was 15 minutes ago, today is still going to be difficult to get through without liquid stimulants.

But maybe at the end of it, he'll get to see his bed again.


	2. Treatment

**A/N: As a huge thanks for the lovely response to the first chapter, here's the second one posted faster than I normally would post it. Enjoy the continuing silliness.  
>Disclaimer: Disclaimed.<strong>

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><p><strong>Treatment<strong>

It's 1730. In the world that exists outside the bubble of this team, office workers are turning off their computers, gathering their belongings and heading out the door to go home. If he were to leave the Navy Yard right now, Tony would find the streets clogged with cars and the sidewalks crammed with people. While he often gets caught in the commuter chaos in the morning, rarely does it bother him in the evenings. It's one of the up sides to working extended hours. He hates the chaos, and he's glad to avoid it.

The problem he faces now is that he really does need to leave the Yard. He needs coffee. He only had a regular size on his way in at 0700. His plan was to pace himself today, but he'd never gotten around to getting another cup at lunch as he'd intended. In fact, they'd been so busy combing through old case files that he never even gotten around to eating lunch. All he's had since his breakfast bagel and coffee is half a chocolate bar he'd found in Ziva's desk drawer. He is starving on top of being caffeine deprived, but right now the need for java is his biggest concern. If he wants to feel vaguely normal again, he will have to leave the office bubble and venture into the real world.

He plants his hands resolutely on his desk before standing and patting his right butt cheek for his wallet. His fingers pull out the familiar square of soft leather that's beginning to fall apart at the seams and he flips it open. He hopes to find real money in there amongst random business cards, receipts and loyalty cards he never uses. Payday seems like a long time ago.

"Are you getting coffee?"

The request is made by a rumpled and hopeful looking McGee. Tony's not sure that the probie has left his desk all day, and so he has pity.

"I'll get you one, but it has to be a normal one," Tony tells him. "I'm not ordering one of your cinnamon…soy…extra cream whatevers." He waves his hand dismissively in McGee's direction.

"Regular latte's fine," McGee says. "I really don't care as long as it's coffee."

"Got it," he says, and walks around his desk towards Ziva. "You want one?"

Ziva's expression turns pained and, Good Lord, he might be hallucinating but she is almost certain he sees her pout.

"Yes," she says, "but I will not have one. Thank you anyway."

He props his elbow up on the partition beside her desk and leans a few degrees to the left. "You sure? We're not getting out of here until, well, Easter seems reasonable."

She makes a face that is either a smile or a grimace and presses the ball of her hand against her sternum. "I know. But I am having chest pains, and I do not think coffee will help that."

Her admission to experiencing physical pain alarms him—he can think of no less than three occasions in the last year where she had blood practically gushing out of a wound and she still insisted she was completely fine. Ziva does not, as a rule, allow physical weakness the time of day. He aims a concerned eyebrow at McGee, who throws one right back at him, and they both return their attention to the heretofore pain-immune superhero.

"Uh, not picking a fight here, sweetcheeks," he begins, "but I'm pretty sure chest pains is one of those things that doctors on TV tell you to do something about immediately."

She rubs her sternum again and looks irritated. "I _am_ doing something," she insists. "I am abstaining from coffee and sitting down restfully."

"I don't really think that's an effective treatment," McGee starts, but he closes his mouth when Ziva turns a scowl on him.

"I am not having a heart attack," she snaps, but the effort of mustering her anger seems painful. She inhales sharply and presses both hands to her ribs, and from his position two feet from her Tony hears a soft, "Ow!"

Tony is not a trained physician. He studied some physio in college and he has a first aid certificate, and he's saved a handful of lives using CPR. He knows how to tie a tourniquet (and when to use one) and he can dress a wound, and he knows precisely how much Advil he can take before he turns into a fricking loon. But he sucks at diagnosis and any treatment more complicated than "apply pressure to bleeding wound" or "take a nap". So why on earth he now decides to come around behind his partner and put his hand on her forehead to check her goddamn temperature is beyond him. Because honestly, what is he going to do with the information? Assuming, of course, that he can even detect a temperature with the back of his hand (which he suspects he will not be able to). Will a heated brow in combination with chest pains have him deduce that Ziva is experiencing heart palpitations? And will he suddenly pull treatment options for such a condition out of the dark recesses of his memory? It's unlikely. And Ziva knows it.

"What are you doing?" she asks, trying to look up at him but stymied by his hand on her forehead holding her head against his stomach.

"I actually don't know," he admits.

"Does she have a fever?" McGee asks in a tone that is probably 80 per cent more mothering than he intended it to be.

"It's hard to tell," Tony replies as McGee gets out of his chair and comes over to check on doctors DiNozzo and McGee's first patient. "She feels kind of warm, but that might just be because I've got both of my hands on her."

He feels the muscles in Ziva's forehead move, and he assumes she is rolling her eyes. "I am warm because it is hot in here and I am in long sleeves," she informs them.

McGee seems to weight this up before looking at Tony. "I'm quite comfortable in here. Are you hot?"

"People tell me so, and I have no reason to doubt them," Tony replies without pause. "But temperature-wise, I am also comfortable. If anything, I'm a little cool."

"Are you dizzy or anything?" McGee asks Ziva.

Ziva shakes her head between Tony's hand and chest. "No, I am fine." She lifts an arm to swat Tony's hand away from her. "I have a headache, but I suspect that can be traced back to the two of you."

"Irritability," Tony says to McGee, adding another symptom to the list. "When was the last time you ate?"

She rubs her head with such force that he thinks her fingers will dent her temples. "Breakfast," she replies. "I did not have time for lunch." She pauses to open her desk drawer and moves a few items around. "I thought I had half a candy bar in here, but I must have eaten it."

Tony's eyes widen with guilt and he looks to McGee. The probie frowns and cocks his head as he works out the Mystery of the Missing Chocolate Bar, but Tony shakes his head firmly, ordering him not to rat him out.

He puts his hands on Ziva's shoulders and gives them a gentle squeeze. "I'll grab you something while I'm out," he volunteers. "Chest pains are probably hunger pains, and you've got a headache because your blood sugar's low." He pauses to shoot a look at McGee, questioning whether any of that made sense. McGee shrugs a yes.

"I am fine," she begins, but Tony groans her insistence away.

"You know, of all your catchphrases, that one is easily the most annoying," he tells her.

He slips out from behind her desk in time to catch the scowl she aims at him. "I do not wish to trouble you," she grits out.

"It's no trouble," he tells her, turning the charm in his smile up to eleven. "I'm your partner. I'm here to take care of you."

She snorts with derision, and he can't blame her. Nor can he fault the _bitch, please_ McGee is giving him. But he shrugs both of them away.

"What do you want to eat?" he asks. "I'll spot you."

She opens her mouth to place her order, but he holds his hand up to stall her before she speaks

"Wait, I'm not getting you a falafel or a couple of lettuce leaves and tomato. You have to have something with meat."

Ziva frowns and clearly has to revise her order. "Just something with chicken, then."

He shakes his head firmly. "Chicken's not meat."

"It is too!" she argues. "It is an animal."

"Yeah, but not a proper one," he tells her, rolling his eyes. "I'm getting you red meat. Cow."

"I don't want—"

"You need iron," he tells her, switching from physician to dietician. "And carbs, Ziva. You're getting beef and cheese on big fat slab of bread." He pauses while he is interrupted by the loud rumbling of his stomach. "Man, that sounds really good. I'm getting that too. A great big burger with a patty that big, Ziva." He holds his thumb and index fingers two inches apart as his stomach rumbles with agreement. "How good does that sound right now?"

Across the room, McGee raises his hand. "I'll have one of those too, thanks."

Tony nods before turning back to Ziva's expression of disgust. "Come on, it'll be good for your soul. Even McTrim wants one."

She twists her lips in indecision, and he decides not to wait for her refusal. He backs up towards the elevator and calls out, "I'm going to fight peak hour traffic for these burgers, Ziva. So you're gonna eat one and you're gonna like it." He hits the call button for the elevator, and just before the door opens he hears her faint reply.

"Thank you, Tony."

He gets into the elevator with a smile. Perhaps he's not such a bad doctor after all.


	3. Ice age

**A/N: More silliness to enjoy. Thanks for all you lovely reviews—as always I am terrible at replying, but your feedback is greatly appreciated.  
>Disclaimer: Disclaimed.<strong>

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><p><strong>Ice age<strong>

This will be his last coffee for the day. Really. It's his third, and although he's been known to do four or even five during a really long or particularly difficult day, Tony knows that if he has another one after this he won't sleep a wink when he finally heads home. He has hope that will not be too far away from now. He is running one final computer search for information on a suspect, and then he will be able to gather up his little special agent backpack and go home to enjoy some special agent dreams. Experience tells him that he will be able to finish the rest of this cappuccino without it disrupting his plans to pass out in front of Sportscentre. He wants to gulp it, but he figures he'll need it to last at least another half hour. So he nurses it like a weight watcher savoring the two squares of chocolate they're allowed in a week.

Gibbs and McGee have both gone home, but Ziva is hanging around to finish her own searches. While Tony sits at his desk, reclined as far back as his chair will allow, his partner stands by the window overlooking the harbor. She is far more interesting and attractive than his computer screen, and he has been quietly watching her for ten minutes as she breathes on the glass and draws patterns in the condensation. He can't help thinking it is a girlish, whimsical thing that he wouldn't expect from a hardened soldier who grew up in a war zone. But he knows she hasn't really been hardened in a long time. Not in the way she used to be.

The longer he knows her, the more he wonders how much of the cast iron shell she wore back in the good ol' days was actually an act. He can't deny that she loved (and still loves) guns and knives and getting to beat the crap out of people. He can't deny that she can be short on patience and that her natural inclination is to deliver a verbal tongue lashing when she is annoyed. And he's aware that she can sometimes be cold and detached when she's in a situation that would have most people crying, panicking or otherwise breaking down. But that detachment comes from her wisdom and experience, and Tony believes that cops—the good ones, anyway—are able to separate themselves from a situation when they need to so that they can get the job done. He doesn't blame Ziva for her intermittent detachment. Indeed, he forgives her for it because he understands it, and because he knows he does the same thing.

The fact is that the woman who is currently drawing flowing, loopy lines over the windowpane _does_ have a girlish, whimsical side. He has seen inside her underwear drawer, and knows it is filled with enough pastel pink lace and pale yellow silk to fill a lingerie catalogue. He knows that the toes inside her combat boots are probably painted with deep purple-red polish right now. He knows that she goes to the flower market at the beginning of every spring to buy an armload of daffodils. He knows that she once squealed in shock and panic when she saw a spider the size of her hand in her apartment and forced him to "be a man" and get rid of it (which he had done with a broom from a distance of five feet while shaking in fear). And he knows that when she sleeps, she likes to snuggle.

Perhaps drawing patterns on the glass is not that much out of character after all.

"You are staring," she says softly, as if delivering the rebuke only because it is expected, rather than because she is actually bothered by his eyes.

"No, I'm sleeping with my eyes open," he lies.

"My butt is tingling," she argues.

"I think you can get creams for that."

"The way it does when you are staring," she continues, ignoring his joke.

"Just when I stare?" he asks. "Or when anyone stares?" He thinks this might be important to know.

"When you stare," she confirms, and then breathes on the glass again and drags her finger through the fog.

"Are you saying my eyes have a weight to them that other people's don't? Can this be scientifically proven?"

"I have not run lab tests," she admits. "But personal experience supports my belief."

"Well, it would," he points out. "I wasn't staring at your butt. I was trying to work out if it's weird that our ex-Mossad warrior princess is drawing flowers on the window while gazing at the river."

Her head barely tilts in his direction, and although he can't quite make out her profile he is almost certain there is a smirk on her lips. "I am not drawing flowers. This," she says with a few slices of her fingertips, "is a fourth generation Glock 17 with a front rail mounted tactical light."

A smile spreads across his face and he lets his head fall to the side. He doesn't believe her for a second, but letting her have the benefit of the doubt will be more fun than arguing. "Oh, Ziva. Don't ever change."

She finishes her drawing and then turns and leans back against the windowpane to look at him. "Do you think that within our lifetime the world will run out of enough oil and coal to meet the world's energy needs? And that rolling blackouts and fuel rations and blankets instead of heaters will be something that we will all have live with on a regular basis?"

For a moment the question stupefies him. That…is not what he thought she was going to say. And he doesn't have a clue how to answer. "I think I might need to be drunk for this conversation."

She's not willing to wake that long. "Back in the ice age humans had more body hair to help them cope with the extreme temperatures. Do you think eventually we will all become hairier again?"

"Are you about to tell me that you've decided to stop shaving your legs? Because I have to object to that."

Ziva shakes her head and gives him that smirk that usually complements a backhanded remark. "No, I am just saying that you, Tom Selleck and Sean Connery will probably be the last men alive."

Oh, she thinks she's so cute. "I know you're trying to insult me, but putting me in the same league as Selleck and Connery on any issue is actually a compliment."

"I am not trying to insult you!" she lies. "I am trying to think of who will be the most effective human blanket to keep me from freezing to death. I am being strategic."

Another grin graces his face. "Being strategic, hitting on me, potato, potahto."

She smiles softly but ignores his comment. "Or perhaps I could find myself a large grizzly bear to slice open and crawl inside."

"Taking the _Empire Strikes Back_ route?"

"If it is necessary for survival," she replies, and then points a questioning finger at him as she seems to have a bright idea. "Is that adventurer, survivalist man from television very hairy?"

"Bear Grylls? Can't say I've noticed."

"It would be smart to align myself with him."

The situation she describes is utterly unbelievable, and yet he can't help but take offence. He frowns at the traitor in front of him. "So, basically, you're choosing decomposing bear intestines and a show off Englishman who eats bugs over me?" He moves on before giving her a chance to explain herself and lobs a completely lame grenade back at her. "I think you're too far into the planning stages for something that you're probably never going to have to deal with."

Ziva shrugs and pushes herself off the window to stroll towards him. "I would probably choose you, but what if the grizzly bear kills you? I would not feel comfortable cutting open your carcass and crawling inside your chest cavity."

Good lord. So much for girly and whimsical. "Thanks, Ziva. You always know exactly what to say. But why wouldn't you help me kill the bear before it killed me?"

She settles her butt on the corner of his desk. "Perhaps I do not have a gun."

"You always have a gun," he points out, letting himself go along with the insane scenario. "And knives. And I'd put money on you being able to MacGyver together a bow and arrow out of sticks and chewing gum. Why am I suddenly dead when we have all those weapons at our disposal?"

Her eyes drift over his chest as she considers that, and then she shrugs agreeably. "I suppose it is possible that we could defeat a bear. It is an _outside_ possibility but…I would probably try to kill it before just letting it have you."

"Thank you. Because I think we'd be more use to each other alive than dead."

"Probably." She reaches down to take the coffee cup out of his hand and sniffs it before taking a sip.

He scowls at her. "Be my guest," he mutters.

She nods at the offer and purposely ignores the sarcasm. "What was that movie with—?"

"_The Day After Tomorrow_," he says. "I haven't seen it in a while but I don't think they got to the point where gangs of marauding bears became a problem."

"And I do not recall that they had to resort to cannibalism."

"No. They did that in _Alive_."

"The one about the soccer players in the plane crash."

"Yeah."

She pauses to look at him thoughtfully. "I do not think I could eat you."

The laugh that comes out of him is a surprise. "Are you getting mushy on me, Ziva?"

She gives him a rare, full smile before she pulls it back again. "But you could eat _me_, if you were starving," she tells him. "If I am already dead—you are not allowed to kill me just so that you have something to eat—but if I am already dead, and you are going to starve to death, I would not hold it against you if you took a slice off my butt."

It's so absurd and yet so weirdly…touching that he has the urge to reach over and hug her. In the end he goes with the safer option of deflecting with a joke. "Okay, but chances are pretty high that McGee would be there too, right? I'd eat him first."

"Yes, of course," she agrees quickly. "I expect that I would be your last resort—" She pauses and reconsiders. "Actually, Gibbs would probably be your last resort."

He slowly bobs his head as he turns that thought around. "Yeah, but only because I don't think he'd taste very good."

Ziva has the gall to roll her eyes at the comment, despite the fact that she's driven the insane conversation. "Oh, and I would taste like what? Cinnamon?"

His grin is entirely inappropriate and he knows it, but it can't be helped. "Okay, the conversation thus far has been firmly in the weird and disturbing category, but now you're pushing it to dangerous. I decline to comment on what I think you'd taste like on the grounds that I might end up with a stapler lodged in my throat."

Ziva understands the double entendre, as he knew she would, and sucks her lips into her mouth as she tries to hold back a smile. "You have a dirty mind." She starts to take another sip of his coffee but he reaches up and takes it off her.

"That can't be news to you."

She crosses her legs towards him and her shin brushes against his knee. "I have heard that human flesh tastes like chicken."

His lip curls at the disturbingly chatty way she delivers this information. "Okay, Hannibal Lecter, now you're getting a little weird."

She is unapologetic. "I still do not think I could get past the idea of it, even if I was starving. Obviously I could not eat you because you are _you_, but I do not think I could eat a stranger either."

He's done with that hypothetical situation, thank you very much. "Can we maybe change the subject to what we'd do if there was an alien invasion or something?"

She purses her lips. "Does Gibbs have an underground bunker?"

"I'm not certain, but I wouldn't bet against it."

"It may be our best hope."

He doesn't subscribe to that logic. "Our best hope is to be stuck in a small bunker for weeks or months…with Gibbs? When the human race might be depending on us to repopulate the earth?"

She points a stern finger at him. "I am not bearing the number of children required to repopulate a soccer team, let along the earth."

Within the safety of the joke, he feels comfortable enough to request additional information. "How many would you bear?"

Ziva actually thinks it over. "Two."

This seems like good information for him to have, but he's not quite ready to consider why that is. "Okay, then the sex will just be for fun, not work. I'm still not doing that in front of Gibbs." He tips back the second-to-last mouthful of coffee.

She chuckles and nudges him with her leg before sliding off his desk and wandering away. "Well, perhaps we should just accept that we will die, spend our last week in Las Vegas and then let them take us while we are drunk."

That sounds much more logical than bunking down—literally—with Gibbs. "That's some good thinking, sweetcheeks."

Ziva winks at him and taps her temple. "I am full of good ideas," she informs him, and then takes his coffee back again. "And I deserve this."

"Why?"

She gently smacks his cheek and gets to her feet. "Because I let you stare at my butt and promised not to eat you."

His eyes fall to said butt as she retreats to her desk and he decides not to argue. If the only price he truly has to pay for the pleasure is handing over the last dregs of his tepid coffee, then he's willing to let her have it.

Frankly, he thinks she's grossly undervalued herself.


	4. Wedding dress

**A/N: Another one-shot guest starring coffee. Enjoy.**  
><strong>Disclaimer: Disclaimed.<strong>

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><p><strong>Wedding dress<strong>

It says something about Tony's life that he is never called in to work when he has nothing to do at home, but only when he has firm plans that he will get in trouble for breaking. Whether this makes his life a tragedy or a comedy, he's not sure. But when Gibbs calls his cell phone moments before he's about to walk out the door to meet friends he hasn't seen in a month, he definitely wants to cry instead of laugh.

"Feel like going fishing?"

Gibbs' question gives him pause. The spike of irritation he feels at his plans of beer and football almost certainly being cancelled is tempered by a fleeting flash of gratification that his father figure might want to spend some quality time with him. But that sounds about as much like something Gibbs would do as quitting to become a full time member of Greenpeace does, and so he has to ask for clarification.

"Huh?"

"Got a body washed up on Black Rock Island," Gibbs tells him, and the confirmation that this is _not_ a social call puts the earth back on its axis. "Round the others up and meet me at the Yard in an hour."

"Got it," he replies, but he's talking to dead air. Irritation grows in him again and he snarls through gritted teeth as he hangs up. A 'thank you' would have been nice, but this is Gibbs after all. The man doesn't waste breath on trivial things like words.

He decides to delay telling his buddy he's got to cancel again for a few minutes and instead navigates to Ziva's number. He's sure she had plans for the day as well, and he just hopes that when he gives her the bad news the ex-Mossad officer doesn't attempt to shoot the messenger.

Ziva's free, full-bellied laugh that he rarely hears but always chases greets him across the line. "David."

He gets straight to the point. "I'm calling to put an end to your fun-having."

She sighs, but doesn't sound angry. "You never even say hello to me anymore," she laments.

The possibility of a flirty and fun Ziva lifts his mood, and he jumps on board to play with her. "Son of a bitch," he mutters.

"What's going on?"

Before he tells her he atones for his sin. "Hello, Ziva."

"Hello," she returns, and he can hear a smile in her voice. "What is going on?"

"There's a dead body on Black Rock Island," he tells her as he walks through his apartment towards his backpack, badge and gun. "Gibbs reckons it might be a fun day out if we all went and looked at it."

"Gibbs needs a better social life," she decides, and then sighs. "I knew I should not have gone out. I do not have my car. Or my bag."

He would bet that despite that, she still has her gun on her. And a knife. "Where are you?"

She hesitates before mumbling a reply. "Uh, muhgnuhlabrishp."

He cradles the phone between his ear and shoulder as he unzips his backpack and does a quick check to make sure it has all the essentials. "What was that?"

She clears her throat and comes clean. "Magnolia Bridal Shop."

His hands in his backpack go still and he lifts his head to aim a quizzical eyebrow at the kitchen wall. Ziva in a bridal shop? He's sure the explanation will be worth the irritation of being called in to work on the weekend. But an explanation is not forthcoming, and the silence drags out for a full five seconds before he gives her a nudge.

"My silence is actually a question, Ziva."

He hears a soft groan before she catches him up. "Olivia is trying on dresses today," she tells him, referring to a friend she met years ago in her tae kwon do class. "She asked us to come with her to help her decide."

The visual of Ziva in cargo pants and combat boots on a girly wedding dress shopping trip brings a gleeful smile to his face. "And how is that going, my little badass ninja?"

"She has not yet found anything that she likes," she informs him, ignoring his baiting tone. "She is going to kill me for leaving now."

Despite mourning his lost weekend, he is now full of grace. "Okay, how about I go past your place and grab your gear and then come pick you up? It'll give you a little more time and Olivia might not kill you."

Her sigh is utterly grateful. "Thank you, Tony. That would be very helpful."

He wonders how many brownie points this will get him, and what he might use them for later. "I'll be a half hour."

She calls out for him before he can hang up. "Tony? Can I ask another favor?"

"Sure."

"I have had a few glasses of champagne," she starts, and he guesses the rest.

"One long black coming up."

"Thank you."

He hangs up, and as he dials McGee he rushes back into his bedroom to change his casual t-shirt for a nicer shirt to go over his jeans. Because if he's finally getting a chance to meet some of Ziva's friends this afternoon, he's going to do everything he can to charm the pants off them.

He arrives at the bridal shop half an hour later with her backpack and jacket in his trunk, her boots beneath the passenger seat and a great big coffee in his hand. He knows she expects him to call from the car and tell her to come out, but there is no way he is giving up the opportunity to meet Ziva's friends and see her surrounded by ivory silk and lace. It wasn't on his bucket list before, but it is now.

He smiles charmingly at the women at the reception desk with the perfect hair, thick makeup and heavily manicured nails and assures them that he's supposed to be here. The 19-year-old lets him go through reception and into the belly of the taffeta beast before her older, more alert co-worker can pull him up, and he walks off down the hall with the confidence of someone who has nothing to hide and is definitely supposed to be there.

He passes two other bridal parties on his walk down the beige and gold aisle. One group is telling their bride that she looks perfect, beautiful, skinny and hot. The other does not mince words, with statements directed at the size of her ass (huge) and a lack of overall class. He wonders how many bridesmaids from that party will end up preceding the bride down the aisle on the big day, and suspects the answer is not many.

At the end of the hall he finds the party he's looking for. There is no bride in sight—he suspects she is behind the door at the back of the room—but six other women are sitting on white and yellow-striped couches and chairs framing a little round platform and a full length mirror. Ziva sits on the arm of one of the couches in jeans, heels and a silky-looking green top that he would very much like to touch. He knows it's going to be a good day because her hair is curly again and there is a slight smile on her lips as she checks her cell phone. And the two glasses of champagne she's had are bound to help as well.

He takes advantage of her distraction and slides onto the arm of the couch beside her. The little jump of surprise she gives is the icing on the wedding cake.

"Hi," she says, clearly off guard.

"Hey," he returns with a smile. "How are things coming along here?"

She smirks a little and throws a quick look at the others before giving him the grim truth. "We are compiling a long list of what she does _not_ want."

"That's important," he offers, and then passes over the biggest cup of coffee he could find on short notice.

"Oh, God, thank you," she almost whispers, and takes it as if it's the most precious thing she's ever held. "Do we have two minutes to spare? Olivia is just trying on another dress."

"Sure."

While Ziva gulps down the coffee he nudges her, leans in and drops his voice to avoid possibly offending the five other women within earshot. "Hey, it smells like…frangipani and silk and black Amex cards in here."

She smiles and mirrors his tone. "You got all that over the hundred dollar scented candles and real champagne?"

"Ah, booze and naked flames," he sighs. "Always a winning combination."

"Not to mention all the hairspray," she returns.

They grin at each other, but their moment of shared mockery is soon broken.

"Hello," one woman says to Tony pointedly.

When the two of them look up they find all five women staring at them with blatant interest. It's game on, and Tony flashes the smile he uses in social situations on women he's not trying to hit on. Charming, but not over the top. The one that engenders trust and puts people at ease so that they do all the talking.

"Ladies," he greets.

He can practically hear Ziva's eyes rolling at his act. "This is Tony," she introduces. "Tony, this is Sarah, Maya, Carolina, Julie and Abelo."

He waves at the chorus of 'hey's that come back at him, and then focuses on the blonde in the corner who he has met once before. "Hi Julie. How's Pete?"

Julie smiles at the mention of her hamster. "He's good."

"So, Tony," Maya starts, and Tony tries to commit her name to memory in conjunction with her pale blue eyes. "Why are you always whisking Ziva away from us?"

"Well, I'm an only child," he replies. "I'm not good at sharing."

Ziva's response is to snort into her coffee while the others smile.

"Beginning of another case?" Maya continues, this time talking to Ziva. "I guess we won't see or hear from you for another week."

Ziva shrugs as Tony reflects for a moment on whether he should get her friends and his friends together for an NCIS bitch-a-thon.

"Never can tell."

"Tony, let me ask you something." This is Abelo—buzz cut and shoulder tattoo—speaking now. "Do you spend as many nights at work as Ziva does?"

"More," he answers quickly, but then smiles and revises before Ziva can get her protest of the facts out. "I mean, yes. The same."

Abelo's next question is forgotten when the door at the back of the room opens and Olivia appears in strapless, fitted ivory with a black sash. She draws the attention and gasps of all the women in the room, but Tony watches Ziva as she clutches her chest and looks like she might cry. He smiles as she goes girly again (and files it away to gently tease her about later), and takes Ziva's coffee as she gets to her feet to move closer to the dress.

"I think this is it," Olivia says, and all her friends and the dress fitter who came out of the room with her nod in agreement.

"You look beautiful."

"It's perfect."

"God, I'm going to cry."

"Definitely the dress," Maya says. "But I think there's a little too much boob right now."

Tony can't help looking, and he finds that her cups are certainly close to running over.

"Can you stuff them down a little more?" Ziva asks, pressing down on her own chest.

Olivia shakes her head. "I don't think so. There's barely enough room to breathe. You think it's an inappropriate amount of boob?"

The others nod, and Abelo holds up her thumb and forefinger an inch apart.

"Just a bit. Perhaps another inch or two of coverage would be good."

The sales assistant comes forward and fiercely woman-handles Olivia's cleavage within the silky sheath. "We could probably add another line of lace to the top here and it will be perfect."

"Yeah, because if you bend over now, you're gonna fall out," Julie says helpfully. "And I don't think you're the kind of girl who wants her boobs out on her wedding day."

As discussion continues over how to make the dress _totally_ perfect instead of just 90 per cent perfect (there are degrees of 'perfect', apparently), Tony stays out of the way and just keeps watching Ziva. He has seen her relaxed and happy plenty of times, but he doesn't usually get to see her be herself with anyone outside of their work family. She seems different with these people, but he can't put his finger on how, exactly. It's not just the heels and silky top and champagne and gasping at wedding dresses. Or maybe it is, and he's just not used to seeing her with other women (Abby doesn't count). He's always had the impression that Ziva is more comfortable in the company of men because she's always been in a male-dominated profession and it doesn't seem to bother her. But maybe that's just an occupational hazard rather than a preference. Because she really seems at home with these women. And she's certainly right into sharing this wedding event with her nearest and dearest.

For a moment he wonders which of these women will precede Ziva down the aisle when she's in the wedding dress. Then he stops the thought immediately when he gets a warm feeling in his chest.

"I'm so sorry, but I have to go," Ziva says to Olivia with a wince.

Olivia seems to have known this was coming, and just nods with acceptance. "Off to save the day, huh?" She looks over at him. "Hi, Tony."

He stands up now that he's been briefly invited into the circle. "Hi, Olivia. You look beautiful. Joe's a lucky guy."

Olivia's smile becomes more genuine, like she doesn't actually want to burn him alive for taking one of her friends away on this important day. He catches Ziva smiling at him as well, and he doesn't know why he suddenly feels like he's passed some weird friendship test. It shouldn't matter what they think of him, right? Not really. Because he and Ziva are only colleagues and friends.

Or something…

Maya shoots in a question before they can leave. "Hey, Tony? Do you think that amount of boob is appropriate for a wedding?"

Tony goes deer in headlights—really, there is no way he can answer this question without getting it wrong or sounding like a sleaze—but Ziva steps in and answers for him.

"You definitely do not want him to answer that," she says, saving him effortlessly, and then leans over to give Olivia a quick kiss on the cheek. "I will call you later."

She waves at the others, but Abelo reaches over to give her a tight hug before she can leave.

"Be safe," Tony hears her say in Ziva's ear.

"We will be," Ziva replies, including Tony.

"Nice to meet you all," he calls out as he steps aside to let Ziva go ahead of him out of the room.

She drains the last of her coffee and tosses the cup into a wastebasket she spies behind the reception desk. "Proud of yourself?" she tosses over her shoulder with a smirk.

He knows she's referring to his crashing of the wedding dress party. But she doesn't seem particularly upset about it, so he just smiles winningly. "Ziva, I just wanted to make sure that you're not associating with ne'er-do-wells and ruffians."

She looks him up and down pointedly. "I am, Tony. Every day."

Yes, he supposes she is. And he's pretty happy about the fact.


	5. Handbag

**A/N: More silliness for quick and easy digestion.  
>Disclaimer: Disclaimed.<strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Handbag<strong>

He is having one of those days where he is left wondering when exactly he will finally grow up and start taking care of himself.

He started learning about how to treat his body to maintain its peak physical fitness way back when he was 12 years old. That was when his basketball coach first drew a line between his talent and a pro career, and Tony decided that he wanted to do whatever it took to make it to the NBA. He learned about proper diet and fitness. He learned about strength, speed and endurance. He learned about stimulants and depressants, and he learned about pain management.

He thinks it was somewhere around age 22 when he started forgetting all that. The NBA was not going to he a part of his future, and so it became too hard to resist the siren song of the beer and cheeseburgers he'd been avoiding for ten years. He stimulated and then depressed the hell out of his body with sugar, carbs, caffeine, alcohol, way too much protein and way too much fun. At the time he'd thought his diet wasn't that much different to the rest of the guys he lived with in the frat house, and although he felt like crap he could still run for miles, even on a crappier knee.

It wasn't until one of his frat brothers actually developed scurvy from his terrible diet that Tony started looking after himself a little better. He cut down on all the crap he was ingesting, upped his water and vegetable intake, and pretty soon he stopped feeling sick and tired all the time. He would consider it magic, but as far as Tony is concerned, there is nothing magical about life without cheeseburgers.

The lesson about how to take care of himself was learned, but it has not been strictly followed. Cheeseburgers really are great. So is beer and pizza. And although he knows it's good for him, water just isn't as interesting to drink as coffee. These weaknesses, along with good ol' fashioned work-related stress, are usually responsible when his body feels like crap these days. It's been 30 years since he first learned how to avoid it, and yet he still stubbornly behaves like a kid and abuses himself simply because it's easier than taking care of himself.

Today he finds himself wishing that he put the effort into looking after himself. He's lived on little sleep, lots of stress and a diet of coffee and takeout for the past six days. He has been feeling generically gross since yesterday morning, but in the last two hours things have taken a turn for the worse. His head has been pounding like there's a rave going on in there with a couple of hundred underage kids who don't know how to hold their booze. There is a stabbing pain above his left eye that is only growing in intensity every time he looks at the glare of his computer, and he's beginning to feel nauseous. A glance at the clock tells him that he's not going to be able to leave work and go home for at least another three hours, and so he is left to sit at his desk and breathe deeply through the pain, and vow to never again drink six cups of coffee in one day.

He grimaces as he lifts his head to look at his computer screen again and types a few more words before McGee speaks up.

"What's with you?"

He squints against the light pouring in from the huge skylight above as he looks across at McGee. "What?"

McGee gestures at him, pen in hand. "You just look really angry."

He finds himself staring at McGee silently for a few seconds as his brain tries to process the comment, and then he gives a brief shake of his head. "I'm not angry. Do you have any Advil?"

McGee doesn't even pause to think about it. "No. You got a headache?"

"Yeah."

McGee's expression shows fleeting sympathy followed by lengthy smugness. "It's probably all that coffee you had today."

His frown of pain turns to a scowl of annoyance and he turns from McGee's (correct) diagnosis. "Not helpful," he grumbles. "How come Gibbs never has a headache when he drinks three gallons of the stuff every day?"

McGee checks that the coast is clear before replying. "Well, Gibbs isn't human," he says, lowering his voice.

Tony highlights the last sentence he wrote and stabs at the backspace key. "Right. Formed from carbon steel," he reminds himself.

"Ziva might have something," McGee suggests.

His eyes fall on his partner's empty desk. He would suggest that Ziva is like one of the active, smiling women in the TV commercials who declare they "don't have time for pain" while simultaneously running a marathon, closing an important business deal, playing with her kids and dogs and making dinner for her smug husband. But he wouldn't describe Ziva as 'smiley', and she's more likely to be punching a guy in the throat than closing a business deal. Regardless, she doesn't have time for pain, and McGee might just be correct in his suggestion.

He pushes his chair back before dragging himself over to Ziva's desk.

"Don't steal any candy bars this time," McGee warns.

Tony rolls his eyes to himself but can't muster the energy to find a retort. He checks that Ziva's not around before moving behind her desk and opening her top drawer. There's the usual assortment of pens, staples, paperclips, Post-It notes and business cards, along with a few random Scrabble tiles. Everything is neat and orderly, and Tony quickly deduces that the drawer does not hold a packet of painkillers. He pushes it shut and opens the second drawer.

"What are you doing?"

_Frickin' ninja!_

He pulls his hand out of her drawer quickly and turns a pathetic look on her in the hopes she'll give him a break. "Looking for drugs. Where did you come from?"

"The elevator," she replies, and drops her red handbag on her desk. "Why would you think I am hiding drugs in my desk?"

"Licit drugs," he revises. "I have a headache."

She seems to catch on. "Oh. You should drink more water and less coffee."

He glares at the obvious. "I know. But that doesn't help me _right now_ while my head is throbbing."

Ziva reaches for her handbag again. "I may have something," she says, but only gets as far as opening the clasp before she is distracted by her ringing cell. She abandons her handbag for the phone. "David," she answers, and it takes only two seconds for her to frown. "Olivia, calm down. I cannot understand you."

Tony rubs his temple as he hovers by her desk and waits. Ziva's conversation with Olivia seems to rapidly disintegrate into an argument, and he's pretty sure that she just as rapidly forgets his predicament. He waves his hand at her to get her attention and she glances up in the middle of a point she is making about taffeta. He points at her handbag and then puts his hands together as if in prayer. It's enough to jog her memory and Ziva reaches for her handbag. She gets as far as pulling open the clasp before Olivia makes a comment that makes Ziva throw her hand up with exasperation and once again abandon the needs of her partner.

"It is the exact same color, Olivia!" she cries. "The florist is just giving it a stupid name to make you pay more for it!"

Even standing on the periphery of a conversation about floral arrangements is enough to make Tony's head throb even worse. He attempts to take matters into his own hands by making a grab for her handbag himself, but Ziva smacks his hand and shoots him a stern glare.

He feels his whole body sag as he gives her his most pathetic look. "Ziva," he whines, and clasps his hands around his head like a helmet.

The look she returns to him isn't irritation, exactly, but he knows well enough than to attempt to grab her bag again.

"Please," he begs.

Her expression turns slightly pitying, and she cradles her cell phone between her ear and shoulder as she sticks both her hands into her bag and starts moving things around. Tony rests his hip against her desk and presses his fingertips into his temple as he searches for the pressure point that will make the pain go away. It remains stubbornly elusive—much like Ziva's painkillers—and he knows he's in serious trouble when he feels tears burn the backs of his eyes. He cannot, under any circumstances, start crying now over a headache. Tears are only acceptable in law enforcement when you have three bullets in you. And even then, they should probably be deer slugs.

Dear God, where are the drugs?

He looks at Ziva and finds that she has once again abandoned her search of her handbag in favor of arguing with Olivia (they are back on the taffeta debate). Poking her now might result in her breaking his finger and denying him drugs at all, but the temptation is strong. And if she breaks his finger he'll have to go to hospital and a sympathetic doctor (if such a beats exists) might take pity and give him some really good painkillers that will make him loopy and, in turn, annoy the hell out of Ziva. Silver lining.

He reaches over and pokes her shoulder once, twice, three times until she 'tsk's at him, shoves her handbag against his chest and gets to her feet.

"There will be some in there," she tells him, and then strides away from her desk to argue with Olivia in peace and quiet.

Tony's eyes fall to the handbag that has fallen into his lap, and his headache is forgotten for a moment as the gravity of the situation sinks in. _Oh. My. God._ Ziva has given him her handbag, one of her most personal and private possessions, with not just the understanding but also the expectation that he will go through it. The words 'holy grail' come to mind, and he glances over at McGee to gauge whether this is really as big of a deal as he thinks it is. The probie is literally leaning halfway over his desk and his eyes are wide with surprise and interest. Big deal confirmed.

Tony clutches the bag against his chest and then scurries back to his desk. He is eager to get his investigation of her personal effects started before Ziva comes to her senses and rushes back to take the loot out of his hands.

"Are you really gonna…?" McGee starts before trailing off.

Tony glances over at him as he sits in his chair and pulls it up to his desk. "Of course I'm gonna," he replies. "She gave it to me. Why wouldn't I?"

"Uh, invasion of privacy?" McGee says, but his conviction holds little weight. He's clearly as interested as Tony is, and his objections are a mere formality. Tony hears them, disregards them, and upends her bag over his desk.

The amount of unexpected crap that tumbles out onto his desk blotter astounds him. How does all this stuff fit into her little bag? How does she walk around with all this and not look like she's dragging it? How does she _need_ all this in one day?

"It's the Ark of the Covenant," he whispers to himself. "I feel like Indiana Jones."

"Anything good in there?" McGee asks. He seems too nervous (or smart) to leave his seat and properly participate in the exploration of their co-worker's psyche.

Tony nods as his eyes skim over the bounty. "Oh yeah," he confirms. "I'm goin' in."

He starts with a clear Ziploc bag and hold it up to peer at its contents. There's a small tube of moisturizer, another of sunscreen, a compact and lip-gloss in a dark red shade he is sure he has never seen her wear. There are two kinds of lip balm—one in a tube like a lipstick and one in a little pot kid of thing. He unscrews the lid of the pot and sniffs the goo inside that is the color of honeycomb. It's kind of coconuty, and he thinks nothing of swiping his little finger across the surface to collect some goo before applying it to his own lips.

"Hmm," he grunts to himself at the strange mix of wax and coconut on his mouth. "Yummy."

He puts the lip balms back into her handbag along with the Ziploc bag, and then tosses in a packet of hand wipes he's never seen her use. A thick brown hair band follows, and then a short but wide hair brush. He feels perverted when he gingerly picks up the box of tampons and throws them back in her bag, but there is no such shyness when he plucks three condom packets out of the mess with a smile.

A small spiral bound notebook is full of Hebrew script that Tony can't begin to decipher. He tosses it back into her bag with a pen and a pencil, and then he finds a plastic box holding a couple of paperclips and safety pins. Why the hell she feels the need to carry paperclips around with her, Tony can't even guess. Unless she really _can_ kill with one, and he has just stumbled upon another one of her weapons caches. He wonders if she could make the three rubber bands lethal, and decides that with the aid of the sharp pencil, she probably could. The nail scissors are definitely deadly, and he supposes the tissues could be as well if she, for example, jammed them down someone's throat.

When he gets to the almost finished roll of duct tape, he holds it up for McGee and throws his colleague a puzzled look. He gets one right back.

"Is that duct tape?"

Tony nods. "Yep. Ziva carries duct tape with her."

McGee twists his lips. "Well, there's about a thousand uses for it."

"When was the last time you needed it?" Tony asks.

McGee twists his lips some more. "I don't remember," he admits.

Tony raises his eyebrows, satisfied that his point has been made, and then puts the tape back in the bag. He's not sure why, but the tape is probably the item that disturbs him the most. So far.

He finds a copy of _The Princess Bride_ with a bookmark wedged between the pages in the final third of the book. He smiles to himself and makes a mental note to check if she's seen the movie. If not, he's got her Friday night covered. His smile grows as he plucks a pair of black lace panties out of the pile, but he doesn't dwell on them. Not with McGee taking his own inventory from ten feet away. He has to wonder why she carries them with her, though. How many panty emergencies must she have faced in the past to lead her to the decision to carry a spare pair around with her all the time? He will definitely consider this in more detail later on.

A packet of spearmint gum has been squished in on itself, and he thinks the minty green splodge on the corner of an out-of-date NCIS security pass might have once called the gum packet home. He spends a few seconds looking at her photo on the security pass and wondering if she really did look that young when she first joined the team. Her hair in the picture is much darker and curlier, her eyes harder and her skin paler, although that could be the lighting of the shot. It is strange to think that this picture was taken at a time when he barely knew her. It's hard to imagine now that there was _ever_ a time when he barely knew her. She fills so much of his life now and takes up so much space in his head that it feels like she's always been there. As he tosses the pass back into her bag, he wonders what used to fill all the space in his head before she came along, and he finds he can't remember.

There is still a pile of stuff left on his desk, including her phone charger (boring), a map of the Metro (still boring), Band Aids and a balled up pair of black woolen gloves. More interesting is a receipt from the Thai take out place around the corner from his apartment dated three years ago, an ATM receipt from one year ago showing an extremely healthy balance, and a ticket stub from the George Clooney movie they'd seen a couple of months ago. He wonders why she has kept these receipts with her when she's cleared the dozen or so other receipts she gets every week out, and files it away to consider later (after he's done thinking about her black lace panties).

He fits the empty water bottle back in amongst everything else, along with her sunglasses and a thumb drive. All that's left now is her wallet, the Advil—_thank you, Jesus!_—and a business card for one Paul Santos, Horticulturalist. Ziva lives in an apartment, sans garden, and they haven't had any cases that Tony can remember that involved specialist plant guy involvement. Is she carrying around the card of a guy who hit on her? Is she dating him?

He must stare at it too long, because McGee questions him over it.

"What's that?"

"Business card for a horticulturalist," he replies, casual as can be. "Name doesn't sound familiar."

"It's probably that guy who's working on the wedding," McGee supplies.

Tony has the sudden urge to go over there and kiss the kid. _Of course_ he's working on the wedding. He's doing some plant feature wall that Ziva's supposed to be managing. Nothing to worry about, as if he'd even have a reason to worry about who his partner is dating. Which he doesn't. No reason at all.

He opens the bottle of Advil, shakes two out and then puts the bottle back into the handbag, which he thinks must have taken on the properties of a TARDIS just to fit everything in. He doesn't have any water or even a coffee so he swallows the Advil dry and winces as his throat works to push them down.

When he picks up her wallet, McGee pipes up again.

"Her wallet is _definitely_ an invasion of privacy," he says.

Because her underwear, tampons and condoms weren't? "Relax, McJudgy. It's not like I'm going to copy down her credit card numbers." He pauses for a beat. "I've got them all memorized already."

McGee makes his final point with a heavy sigh, and Tony continues to ignore the warning. He glances around, including behind him, to check that the coast is still clear and then flips Ziva's wallet open. There aren't many surprises. Her driver's license (with a pretty good photo), an ATM card, credit card, Metro SmarTrip card, coffee card from the café two blocks from the NCIS building and a few store cards. Tucked behind the coffee card is a reminder card for a doctor's appointment for two weeks ago, and he takes a moment to think back and try to remember her being gone on a Thursday afternoon. He can't, and he wonders if that means that she went and he didn't notice, or if she cancelled. There is only one hidden pocket, and in that he finds an old, creased Post-It note with some faded Hebrew script above the address of his apartment and then McGee's apartment, and two photos.

The first photo is small enough to fit neatly into the wallet. It too is creased and the color has definitely faded, but he can still clearly make out the faces of two young girls with masses of dark curls. Tony smiles as he flips the photo over to confirm his suspicions, but the writing on the back is in Hebrew as well. Nevertheless, he recognizes the Hebrew letters that make Ziva's name and a date—1987. Ziva would have been 12, and Tali seven. He turns the photo over again and looks carefully at his partner's face. He can definitely see the woman he knows in the child's face. The widow's peak is a giveaway, but the eyes, nose and mouth are the same as well. Her cheekbones and chin are less defined than they are now, her skin and hair darker. She stands on a white sand beach in bare feet, short denim cut-offs and an oversized white t-shirt. Her arm is around her little sister who is similarly dressed, but is flashing a bigger smile. There is a strong resemblance between the girls, although Tali's hair is shorter and lighter and her chin is pointier. Tali has multi-colored beads strung around her neck and bright yellow sunglasses pushed up on top of her head. She looks adorable.

He wonders whether Ziva takes this photo out regularly to look at, or whether simply having it close by is enough to keep the memory alive. He wonders if something special happened on that day at the beach that makes this particular photo the one that she wants to carry around, or if it's just the best photo of a bunch of the two of them together. He thinks it's a shame that he never met Ziva's sister, but thinks that if she'd lived then the chances that Tony would have met either of them at all would have been slim. He goes back to his thought from a few minutes ago; if they'd never met, what the hell would Tony be filling his head with every day? Work? Another woman? It seems unfathomable.

He puts the photo away and takes a look at the final photo in his hands. It has been folded in half to fit into the secret sleeve behind all her cards, and when he opens it up he's surprised to see his own face looking back at him. He's joined by Ziva and McGee in the shot, and Tony has no recollection of it being taken. The three of them are outside in the fading light of the afternoon, and he stands in the foreground, looking back over his shoulder at the camera. Ziva and McGee stand facing him in the background, and the two of them appear to be laughing while he looks vaguely confused. Judging by McGee's weight and the tightness of Ziva's curls, the photo was taken about four years ago. He can't make out any of the background except for the branches of a tree dipping into frame, and so he can't even make a guess at where they were or what they were doing. All he knows is that it's not a crime scene outtake, because they're all in regular clothes. Just as he wondered about the previous photo, he wonders if something in particular happened on that day that made her want to keep a record of it with her. If it did, he can't remember it. And he thinks that might make him a bad partner.

With s small sigh he tucks the photo back into its hiding place with the other, puts her wallet back into her handbag, and then carries the cargo back to her desk.

"So, you keep saying that you're a very talented investigator," McGee says. "What new information have you found out about your colleague from your examination of her personal effects?"

Tony wanders a few steps in McGee's direction. "She's prepared for anything," he replies, starting with something easy. "Although we both already knew that."

"Yeah, but the duct tape sealed it for me," McGee says.

"If I ever need cash in a hurry, I'm asking her for a loan," Tony continues.

"Good to know."

"And she's roughly five times more sentimental than I thought she was." It wasn't just the photos. The movie ticket stub and three-year-old takeout receipts said the same thing. He just wishes he knew why they were important enough to keep.

"Did you find what you needed?"

Tony jumps at the sound of Ziva's voice and spins around to face her. For a moment he thinks it is a loaded question, and he looks at her askance as he tries to work out what, exactly, she is getting at. Did she see him studying her photos? Or smirking at her underwear? Or using her lip balm? But her eyes lack the weight of accusation that they usually carry when she knows he's done something that deserves rebuke. Today, she is simply asking if he has found the Advil.

"Uh, yeah. Thanks. I found the bottle between the kitchen sink and your life-size Statue of David."

She frowns slightly as the joke goes over her head, but doesn't ask him to explain himself. Instead she just hands him a bottle of water and an apple.

"Drink that and have something to eat," she tells him. "They will make you feel better."

He takes them with a smile of thanks and then returns to his desk. His head is still pounding, but with drugs in his system, some natural food in his hands and a promise in his heart to stay the hell away from coffee and processed food for the next week, he's hopeful that the throbbing will soon die down.

"Taffeta issues?" he throws at her.

Ziva rolls her eyes and huffs. "I am going to kill her before she has a chance to get married," she grumbles. "I am not putting up with Godzilla for the next two months."

Tony's prepared to let that one go without correction, but McGee decides to make the distinction between the Japanese monster and the crazy brides. And while the two of them debate idioms, metaphors and turns of phrase, Tony sits back and watches his partner, and wonders if she'll ever find the one secret photo he carries in his wallet.

It was the only good shot he ended up taking in Paris.


	6. Carpool

**A/N: Time for Ziva to start paying her dues.  
>A really short one to satisfy those who have been threatening me.<br>Disclaimer: Disclaimed.**

* * *

><p><strong>Carpool<strong>

_Wallet, watch, keys, phone, badge, gun_.

Two steps from his front door Tony pauses to pat himself down and check that he's fully loaded and ready to go. He's having the kind of frustrating, forehead-smacking morning that has already seen him wake up half an hour late, put his cell phone in the bathroom cabinet instead of the toothpaste, and put on mismatched suit pants and jacket. This is the third time he's checked that he has all the necessary cargo to face the day, but given that he discovered his belt was still open on his first check, he thinks the third, and perhaps a fourth, check is warranted. His stomach grumbles as his hand rests over the bulge of his badge in his jacket, and he casts a longing look at his refrigerator. He'd love to pause for breakfast but he's already running late, and he has to rely on the Metro to get him to work after leaving his car at the Yard last night.

The team had wrapped a case the day before, and had celebrated with what was only supposed to be one or two drinks at their favorite bar near the Navy Yard. Honestly, he'd only intended to have two drinks spread out over a few hours to make sure he could still legally drive himself home. But two drinks in an hour turned into five drinks in two hours and then eight in three, and by the time the huge plate of nachos arrived at the table he had felt decidedly inebriated. He hadn't been close to fall down drunk, but when the team had split up to go their separate ways for the night, he had erred on the side of caution and gotten into a taxi.

He thinks his inability to function on a normal level this morning might have something to do with the previous night's activities, but at least he's not hungover. He doesn't know how he's managed to avoid that but doesn't have time to go through his evening step-by-step to try to work out what he did differently. Because right now he's realized that he doesn't have his back up gun, and he has to run back to his bedroom for it and get it on _pronto_ if he's going to make it to work before Gibbs feels the urge to make his day hell.

Back in his bedroom he unlocks his desk and pulls out the second drawer. He grabs his back up, slams the drawer, locks up his desk again and then lifts his foot to his chair as he straps it on. When he stands again he does yet another inventory, but this time he does it aloud.

"Wallet, watch, keys, phone, badge, gun, and back up," he recites, and this time he finds everything in its place. He checks one last time that his pants are done up, and then races for the front door. "Back pack," he says finally, and grabs his bag from the floor beside the door to complete his armor.

He steps out the door 20 minutes late and then speed walks to the elevator. The car takes forever to arrive and he's considering either taking the stairs or kicking the doors when they suddenly spring open. He steps in and hits the button for the ground floor four times before the doors shudder their way closed. The car creaks and groans its way down, and he reminds himself (as he does every morning when he steps inside the deathtrap-in-waiting car) that he should really, _really_ look at moving soon. As the car reaches the ground floor Tony braces himself for the familiar final jolt as the elevator lines itself up with the floor. More than once—and not even exclusively when he has been drunk—he has lost his footing from that jolt and stumbled. But not this morning. It has been his one saving grace so far.

He shares a quick greeting with the old woman who lives on the floor below his who he sees just about every morning, and then dashes across the foyer and out the door. Then he almost trips on the person sitting on the front steps of his apartment block. His irritation soars as he prepares to deliver to them a curt lecture about sitting in public thoroughfares. But then the person lifts her head to look up at him and he realizes it's Ziva. The lecture dies on his tongue and his frown turns to an expression of surprise.

"Hey!"

Ziva folds the paper she has been reading and pushes her sunglasses up on her head as she gives him a small smile. "Good morning."

"What are you doing here?"

"You left your car at work," she says. "I thought you would need a ride in."

He appreciates the gesture, and the sight of her is enough to turn his mood again and put a smile on his face. "Why didn't you come up?"

She stands and brushes stray dirt from the apartment block steps off her butt. "I did not wish to interfere with your morning routine."

She can't know what he's been going through this morning, but nevertheless he thinks she's right. Having her sit in his kitchen while he ran around would have been an unneeded distraction.

Ziva bends over to pick up the two cups of coffee and a white paper bag from the steps. He's interested in what could be in the bag, but more interested in her butt which he stares at for a grand total of two seconds before she straightens again and holds the bag and one of the coffees out to him.

"Here."

His eyes widen at the bounty. "If you got me breakfast I'm going to ask you to marry me."

She snorts dismissively at the joke, removing his sudden urge to smack himself upside the head. "I am not in the mood for planning another wedding at this time."

He sends her a knowing look—Ziva's frank account of Olivia's rapidly deteriorating sanity has not been kind—and peeks inside the paper bag. It looks like she brought him a bear claw, and Jesus, he might just ask her to marry him after all.

But not yet.

He takes a healthy slug of coffee and closes his eyes as he waits for the coffee-induced endorphins to kick in. "God, that's some good coffee."

"I am glad you are enjoying it," Ziva replies, and although his eyes are still closed he can tell from her tone that she wants to laugh at him. He doesn't care. She brought him coffee and a bear claw and has earned herself a chuckle.

He opens his eyes and flashes her a smile. "I'm beginning to feel normal again."

Ziva licks coffee from her lips and in the process sparks the most pleasing thoughts he's had all morning. "Normal," she repeats. "I am not sure I have ever had the pleasure of meeting you in such a state."

The smile he throws her is more related to his thoughts that her dig at him. "We should go."

"Yes."

They've only taken two steps towards the sidewalk before he stops and puts his hand on her arm. Ziva looks up at him quizzically, and he shoots her a sheepish wince because he knows how stupid this is going to sound.

"Am I wearing all my clothes?"

She meets his gaze impassively for a moment before dropping her eyes to look him over. "Yes," she says slowly, as if she is wondering if he is making a joke that she doesn't get.

He breathes out with relief and nudges her arm before they head for her car again. "I've had a bad morning," he tells her.

"Yes," she agrees. "But you now have hot coffee and a bear claw. So things are looking up."

Well, if the hot woman who brings him breakfast and drives him to work insists on being optimistic, he supposes he has no choice but to agree.

* * *

><p><strong>Yeah, these are getting more and more pointless. I know. But I warned you up front that they're a bunch of random one shots I'm trying to clear off my hard drive, right? There are a couple of good ones coming, though.<strong>


	7. Fire drill

**A/N: A little more meat to the bones of this one.  
>Disclaimer: Disclaimed.<strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Fire drill<strong>

"Did you know that over 100 people choke to death on ballpoint pens every year?"

The mangled end of Tony's Bic doesn't leave the vice of his front teeth as he looks up from a report and glances over at McGee. The younger agent is frowning at him with mild annoyance, and Tony wonders how hard he's been chewing on the plastic to make a noise loud enough to bug the guy sitting eight feet away. Not that Tony gives a crap that McKnowitall is annoyed. He has his own annoying things to deal with.

Nevertheless he takes the pen out of his mouth and casually throws a useless factoid back at Professor Brain, just because he knows it will irritate him even more. "Did you know that the word 'testify' is derived from a time when men used to have to swear on their testicles?"

McGee's frown deepens in direct correlation to the spread of Tony's triumphant smile. But he doesn't concede their game of Smartypants King. "Did you know that apples are more effective at waking you up than coffee?"

Tony digs his heels in, determined to win this round. He gestures at the pen clutched in McGee's left hand. "Did you know that lefties are more prone to allergies, migraines, insomnia, are more likely to be alcoholics and die about nine years earlier than righties?"

McGee's frown deepens as his eyes fall on his left hand. "I didn't know about the alcoholic thing," he mumbles.

"It's you quiet ones we need to worry about," Tony tells him, pointing the chewed end of his pen across the bullpen with accusation.

McGee shoots him a scowl, to which Tony responds with a grin. He enjoys a fleeting moment of satisfaction over winning their round of trivia before returning his attention to the task that has him so irritated. Inputting cold case data into the computer system. Team Gibbs has been without a fresh case to work on for almost two weeks. Initial appreciation for the downtime soon turned sour when their days became filled with hated filing. Then once the filing was done, cold cases dating back to NIS days called. What Tony has discovered over the last two weeks is that the lack of stress from an active case ends up making him more stressed out. He finds himself yearning for a proper vacation where he doesn't feel guilty and restless over not doing anything. A vacation at his desk is hardly the cure for what ails him.

He lifts his gaze to look for Ziva—a possible cure for his ails—but her desk is empty. And now that he thinks about it, she hasn't been in the office for a while.

"Where'd Ziva go?" he asks McGee.

"She went to meet Emma Park for coffee," McGee replies, referring to the analyst who works the Middle East desk. "You didn't notice she's been gone for the last hour?"

"Of course," Tony lies. Yes, he's noticed that she hasn't been at her desk for a while, but he hadn't connected that with the idea that she'd left the building. It doesn't surprise him to hear that she's left the building with Emma Park, though. Those two have been getting chum and chummier in the last few months, and Tony could not be more encouraging of the relationship. Because Timmy McGee has confessed a certain fondness for the lovely Ms Park, and that can only lead to a tantalizing fountain of information about McGee's private life for Tony. Emma will talk to Ziva, and Ziva will in turn talk to Tony. And then Tony will have more dirt on McGee, and his life will be set.

The perfect crime…

"Hey, did Ziva say something to you about some roller derby thing they're going to?" he asks as he begins to set the course of the conversation for Park Street.

McGee nods and seems to smirk. "Yeah, it's next weekend. She's inappropriately excited about it."

Tony leans forward. "Now, are they participating in the roller derby, or are they just watching?"

"Participating, I think," McGee replies. "Emma's got it in her head that she's going to start some inter-agency league with the FBI, USCGS, Army CID and Metro."

A few seconds' thought devoted to the idea leaves Tony with no doubt that charming, persistent, competitive Emma Park will make that happen. "Right."

"Ziva didn't tell you?"

He leans back in his chair and twirls his mangled pen in his fingers. "She said something last week about roller-skates and violence, but she was about 90 per cent asleep at the time and I think half of what she said was in Arabic. I didn't get a real clear picture of what was going on." He pauses. "Is Abby going with them?"

McGee's face falls into an expression of dread and nerves that Tony reads loud and clear. Ziva and Emma's strong relationship has become a bone of contention with Abby, although neither man can work out why, exactly.

"Don't know. Not getting involved."

"Roller derby seems like one of those things that Abby would really get into."

McGee lowers his head to his file. "Not getting involved," he repeats stubbornly. "I've learned from past mistakes."

Tony doesn't want to get involved either. The 'past mistake' involved a trip Ziva and Emma had taken to a motorcycle racing track. They hadn't thought to invite Abby, Abby had taken great offence, and both had railed to Tony and McGee about how unreasonable the other was. McGee had initially handled the situation by explaining the other's point of view calmly and gently to each woman. That had ended with Ziva and Abby both getting pissed off with him—proper, scary pissed off like only Ziva and Abby can do. Tony had only stayed in their good books by taking the path of least resistance and muttering vague agreements.

He leaves thoughts of that awkward situation behind in favor of probing the probie for details of his love life. "You ask Emma out yet?"

McGee's pen doesn't pause its journey across his page. "Nope."

"You getting cold feet?"

"Nope."

"You terrified?" he second-guesses.

There is a pause. "Yep."

"Because you think she'll say no or because you think she'll say yes?"

McGee stops writing and looks up at the plasma beside Gibbs' empty desk as if searching it for an answer. "I'm not sure."

Tony raises a third option. "Or because you're scared she'll only say yes if you get rid of all your action figures?"

"She doesn't know anything about my action figures," McGee insists with a clenched jaw. "No, it's just the…Gibbs thing."

Tony stares at him blankly, failing to see how the silver sergeant has anything to do with McGee asking Emma Park on a date. "You think he'll be jealous?" he baits.

McGee rolls his eyes like a 13-year-old girl. "The rule thing," he elaborates.

Ah, the dreaded number 12. The one that seems completely easy to abide by right up until the moment that it's not. But Tony doesn't understand why McGee needs to worry about that in this situation. "You're not co-workers," he tells McGee. "At least not in the context of that rule."

"I don't know…"

"You're not," Tony says firmly. "Don't use it as an excuse to gut out."

McGee's mouth falls open as if this is the most offensive thing Tony's ever said to him. Clearly his left-handedness has also impacted on his memory. "I am _not_ gutting out!"

"Good. Then man up!"

McGee goes on the defensive to hide his nerves. "You know, you need to find a hobby that doesn't revolve around dissecting my potential relationships. It's kind of weird that you're so interested, isn't it?"

"I'm an investigator, McGee," Tony replies easily. "A student of the human condition."

"Oh, lord," McGee sighs.

"Also, I just want to hear about all the things Emma will tell Ziva." He claps his hands before rubbing them together in glee. "I'll be mining McGee stories for months."

He's not expecting McGee's mocking smirk. "You think Ziva's going to tell you anything Emma says?"

"Of course she will," Tony replies confidently. "She tells me stuff all the time. We don't keep secrets from each other."

"You _always_ keep secrets from each other," McGee (rightly) points out. "Like, weekly. There's always some huge secret one of you keeps from the other one that invariably gets the rest of us in trouble."

Tony clears his throat and swallows down his pride. "That might be…occasionally true," he allows in a small voice before regaining his confidence and pointing at McGee. "But never over stuff to do with you. We always talk about you behind your back."

"Well. That's nice," McGee says insincerely.

"It's mostly nice," Tony offers.

"Do you want to know how often me and Ziva talk about you?"

"I imagine it's every minute that I'm not with you."

The look McGee returns is one of withering irritation that would make Gibbs proud. He opens his mouth in preparation to firmly set the record straight on the issue, but the argument dies on his lips when the _whoop! whoop! whoop!_ of the fire alarm sounds across the floor. They put their fight on pause look around for smoke, flames or other signs of fire. Finding none, they nonetheless follow protocol by gathering up the confidential files on their desks and locking them away in preparation to evacuate.

"You gotta be kidding," Tony mutters. He glances out the window at the gloomy day outside. It's not snowing now but it did this morning and it probably will again tonight. "They're going to kick us out of the building? It's freezing out there."

"Maybe it's a false alarm. Or they're just testing the system." McGee's voice is full of hope that Tony doubts will save them.

"They would've sent out an email," he counters. He stands to pull on his thick winter coat, and he and McGee join the disorganized line of agents slowly and grudgingly heading to the fire escape.

McGee tries to find the bright side. "At least it's a break from cold case work."

Tony finds a pair of leather gloves in his coat pocket and pulls them on. "Cold cases in a warm building, or waiting around in a cold climate? I think I'd prefer the cold cases."

* * *

><p>They huddle in a shivering and cranky mass of overcoats on the rear lawn of the Navy Yard while fire engines arrive and the NCIS building is searched for evidence of a fire. Rumor has it that someone left a wheat pack for their shoulder in the microwave too long and it caught fire, although rumor does not extend to the culprit's name. Yet. Tony has no doubt that they will be named, shamed and disciplined by 30 pissed off agents by the end of the working day.<p>

His toes are going numb and his cheeks are beginning to sting in the icy wind when, 15 minutes into the evacuation, he catches sight of Ziva's white knit cap through the crowd. She disappears behind a group of pasty-looking men Tony can only assume have crawled out of the IT bowels of the building, and then reappears again with Emma Park in tow. Tony glances at McGee to throw him a look of encouragement, but McGee's gaze is glued to his smart phone.

"McGee," he hisses.

McGee's eyes don't leave the screen. "Huh?"

Tony glances back at Ziva and Emma. They're weaving between two groups of Marines, and Tony can now see that Ziva's carrying a tray loaded with takeout coffee cups and bakery bags. Goddamn, she's _really_ making a play for his heart lately, whether she knows it or not.

"Incoming," he hisses to McGee.

McGee frowns and finally looks up at him. "What?"

Tony barely cocks his head in Ziva and Emma's direction as he tries to draw attention to them without drawing attention to himself. "Emma Park, two o'clock."

McGee turns to look, and his wind-whipped pink cheeks suddenly glow red. "Oh."

"Now would be a good time to put your plan into action," Tony tells him.

McGee appears dubious. "Right now?" he questions. "In front of you and Ziva?"

Tony understands his hesitation but can't resist screwing with him a little. "Why not? We're family, Tim. We share everything."

Something akin to distaste crosses McGee's face as he glances towards the duo who is about to turn them into a quartet. "I don't want to partake in what you and Ziva share," he mutters.

Tony sends him a bitchy smile in lieu of a smart word when Ziva and Emma finally reach them. He greets them as he normally would.

"How long does it take to get a cup of coffee?" he asks Ziva. "You've been gone, like, five hours."

"It was a long line," she deadpans. "I did not miss anything, did I?"

He looks around at the 150 or so people on the lawn in the freezing cold who would usually be inside at this time of day. "Guess not," he replies.

Ziva scrunches her nose at him and then passes a coffee and pastry bag to McGee. "We thought you might need warming up."

McGee takes them with a polite smile. He's on his best behavior in front of Emma Park. "Thank you, Ziva. That was very thoughtful."

Ziva pauses just long enough to tell Tony that she thinks something's up with McGee, but she covers herself well. "Thank Emma. It was her suggestion."

McGee turns a kind and bordering on shy smile on Emma. "Thank you, Emma."

"Yeah, thanks Special Agent Park," Tony adds. "Ziva never brings me coffee and pastries."

His partner rolls her eyes to herself and doesn't bother with looking at him as she hands over his treats. He is sure she will not hold a grudge for long.

"No problem," Emma Park is saying. "We heard you were all out here. Is it an evacuation exercise?"

"Uh, we heard someone left a wheat pack in the microwave too long," McGee tells her.

"Really? You know, I saw an exhibition once where the artist had put all these random household items in the microwave until they burned or exploded or warped," Emma says, and then follows the statement with a frown. "I think he received some Government grant for it. It was pretty awful."

More than 20 years of dating has trained Tony to locate and pursue an opening, no matter how slight. He sees one now. "Oh yeah? You know, McGee's a lefty. That means he's all creative and crap. Right, McGee?"

McGee looks at him like he can't believe Tony went for it, but recovers to make the link Tony was getting at. "Well, sort of. I guess. I wrote a book once."

Emma appears pleasantly surprised and interested. "You did?"

It's enough to give McGee a few shots of confidence. "Yeah, a crime novel."

As he begins to relate the tale, Tony tunes him out and turns to Ziva. She's not beside him anymore, and he has to keep turning until he finds her standing behind his left shoulder, facing him. He finds the position of the ex-Mossad Officer unnerving and turns around to look at her head on.

"What are you doing?" he asks with suspicion.

"Nothing," she says simply, before curling her shoulders in against a gust of wind that sends the straightened ends of her hair flying over her shoulders.

"Are you using me as a wind break?"

"Yes," she replies obviously, and without a hint of apology. Then she gestures at McGee and Emma with her chin. "What is that about?" she asks, lowering her voice.

Tony just lifts his eyebrows and grins, knowing that will be enough for her to catch on. She does almost immediately, but instead of smiling she makes a face like she finds the pairing unlikely.

"Really?"

His grin falls as he seeks her opinion. "No? You don't think so?"

Ziva glances at them and then shrugs at him. She's clearly not seeing it. He takes a step towards her to put some distance between this conversation and the blossoming infatuation behind him. Ziva steps back to keep professional distance.

"She doesn't like him?" he questions, mumbling so that probie ears won't hear.

"She has not said," Ziva mumbles back.

Tony takes another step towards her and Ziva backs up again. He cocks his head over his shoulder and makes an argument for the affair. "Creativity and crap, Ziva. I just built the bridge between them."

His flimsy construction of romantic foundations causes Ziva to smirk and snort with what he thinks is more teasing than affection. "Was that your attempt at acting as his _bird man_?"

"_Wing_ man, and yes," he replies defensively, although he's smiling at the half-assed effort as well. "What, you didn't think I did a good job? They're still talking, aren't they?"

Ziva peeks around his arm. "Yes."

"Is she laughing?"

"Smiling."

He backs her up another step. "Smiling leads to laughing, Ziva."

She proves his point by breaking into a chuckle which he now thinks is more affection than teasing. "Does McGee act as your _wing_ man?"

He snorts derisively and rolls his eyes. "Please, Ziva. I don't need one," he drawls, making her laugh again. He presses his advantage. "See? You're laughing. And I didn't need McGee's help."

"I am laughing _at you_, DiNozzo," she insists.

He knows she's not, and that allows him to act nonchalant. He shrugs and taps his coffee cup against hers. "I'll take it," he tells her.

"You're so easy," she mutters.

He ignores her and shifts the conversation to something potentially more interesting. "So, what's this roller derby thing you started telling me about last week?"

"For Olivia's bachelorette party?"

He frowns, because that doesn't follow his understanding of the event. "Maybe. I thought Emma was going."

Ziva nods. "She is."

"Does Emma know Olivia?"

"No."

She doesn't offer an explanation of their relationship, and he doesn't care enough about the details to ask for more. "Okay, whatever. So, are you watching or participating?"

A small smile curls the corner of her mouth, and she clearly understands where his interest in this activity stems from. "Participating."

He smiles with indulgence at the picture of roller derby Ziva—fishnets, little skirt and t-shirt—his imagination supplies. "Really."

Ziva reads the gist of his thoughts and points at him sternly. "No, you may not come along to watch."

"Oh, come on!" he whines.

"No."

He files that argument away to revisit later. "Isn't roller derby kind of weird for a bachelorette party?"

"Why?"

"Well, it's kind of violent," he starts to explain before it occurs to him that Ziva's sporadic cultural misinterpretations might be at play here. "Wait, you know what roller derby is, right?"

She shrugs as if it is obvious. "Women in roller skates beating the crap out of each other. Of course I know what it is." She lifts a challenging eyebrow. "Does it surprise you that I would want to be involved in that?"

"Actually, no," he admits. "It's right up your alley. I just don't see it as a traditional bachelorette party activity."

Ziva waves a gloved hand dismissively. "The wedding will be a month after the party. Her bruises will have healed by then."

"Oh."

"Who's bruised?"

Tony turns at the sound of Emma's voice to find her and McGee rejoining them. As Ziva talks about the roller derby, Tony catches McGee's eye and lifts an eyebrow in question. McGee casts a furtive glance at the others before returning a fleeting nod and smile to his SFA. Mission accomplished. Tony smiles to himself and tunes back in to Ziva and Emma's conversation. He can't wait to tell Ziva that he was right about them.

"I reckon we should get Mindy Oswalt on our team," Emma is saying. "She always looks like she's carrying all this aggression she needs to get out. She can take it out on the FBI."

Ziva nods cautiously, but then offers another name. "We need Abby. She is excellent on rollerblades and is a very impressive bartender."

Emma seems over her previous issue with the forensic scientist and nods quickly. "Yes. The league definitely needs a good bartender. And Abby seems like she could get dangerous."

"If you anger her," Ziva confirms, and then curls in on herself again when another bone-chilling gust of wind slams into her. Tony moves a step closer to her, and she throws him a grateful smile. "Thank you."

"You love this weather, Ziva," he points out. "Every winter you make a speech about how magical it is."

"I like the _concept_ of this weather," Ziva argues. "And I like snow, but only when I am looking out on it from inside a warm building."

"Hey, did you know that the average snowflake has a top speed of about five and a half feet per second?" McGee interjects.

He receives twin frowns from Ziva and Emma as they attempt to work out why he is so eager to share the random piece of information. Tony knows exactly what's going on, and although he knows he should let McGee look good in front of Emma, he can't keep his mouth shut.

"Don't worry about him," he tells the others. "He's just cranky because I took his egghead crown off him." He turns to McGee. "You need to find something practical to tell us, Tim. Something we can use. Like when women have orgasms it uses almost every part of their brain. And that kissing lowers cholesterol and releases dopamine. So it's a natural anti-depressant."

A beat of silence follows as the others consider what goes on inside Tony's brain. Ziva finds her voice first.

"Is this like when you told me that orgasms relive menstrual cramps and are good for headaches?"

"That's all true," he tells her confidently. "The increased blood flow and the contractions release—"

"Okay, enough," she cuts in, rubbing her forehead.

He nudges her with a grim. "Do you have a headache?"

Ziva purses her lips as she weighs up her response, but she never delivers it.

"Pop a pill, David," comes Gibbs' gruff voice. "Don't have time for DiNozzo's remedy. We got a crime scene to get to."

The four of them jump as Gibbs strides past with his winter coat swirling around his legs and steam from his jumbo coffee cup trailing over his arm. It's the first time any of them have seen him since he disappeared from the office without a word several hours ago, but they know better than to ask where he was. And it doesn't matter, anyway. A new case means the end of cold cases, and it's enough to lift the agents' moods considerably.

"On your six, boss," Tony calls after him, and they all farewell Emma Park before jogging to catch up to Gibbs.

"Did she say yes, McGee?" Ziva asks.

McGee looks at her with surprise before turning a traitorous look on Tony. "You told Ziva?"

"No, she guessed." Technically, it is the truth.

"Did she say yes?" Ziva repeats.

"Yes."

"Well, good," Ziva says supportively, hiding her true feelings on the union for the moment. "Surely one of us deserves to have some fun."

"You're having fun at roller derby," Tony points out.

"Not the fun I was referring to, but yes," Ziva allows.

"And I'd have fun if you told me where and when that was happening," he tries.

"No."

"Will you at least take a photo?"

"No."

"Then just describe your outfit to me."

She turns a smirk on him. "Tony, I am sure your imagination will do a better job than reality."

He supposes that's possible. But with Ziva concerned, somehow he doubts it.


	8. Cardiopulmonary resuscitation

**A/N: My Twitter Mafioso knows that I lost this story in the Great Hard Drive Meltdown of 2012. After much screaming and crying and wailing (from all of us), I picked myself up, dusted myself off, ate half a packet of Tim-Tams and then got working on rewriting it. Back up your hard drives, kids. Like, every single day.  
>Disclaimer: Disclaimed. <strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Cardiopulmonary resuscitation<strong>

"Don't you die on me, damn it!"

Ziva sits on the gleaming autopsy slab, legs crossed and elbow resting on her knees as she watches Tony compress the chest of the body on the floor. No amount of heroics will bring the CPR dummy to life, but that does not prevent her partner from throwing every drop of drama he has within him into the task. He had complained all morning about having to recertify in CPR, so it does not surprise Ziva that he has found a way to amuse himself through the mandatory process.

"I need you to fight!" he cries. "You're too young for this!"

She sips her coffee and then looks over at Abby sitting beside her on the slab. "This is what I live with every day," she drawls.

"Breathe!" Tony yells. "Don't you leave me!"

"The only thing worse would be living without him every day," Abby says sincerely.

Not-so-deep down, Ziva agrees. But she will hardly admit this aloud. She has to save face. "Do not knock something until you try it, yes?"

"I can hear you," Tony says over his shoulder.

"Yes, well, we are sitting five feet from you and speaking with our normal voices," Ziva points out, refusing to be shamed.

"Did you guys have a fight?" Abby asks, but doesn't give them a chance to reply before offering a lecture. "You shouldn't fight with each other! Either of you could die at any moment. You want to last words you share to be in anger?"

Ziva listens to the rebuke with her lips parted in surprise. She finds it difficult to follow Abby's thought processes at the best of times, but encounters particular difficulty when the goth displays sudden and deep emotion. She glances at Tony to gauge whether he has a better grasp on Abby's mood. Tony sends her a small shrug, and then does a quarter turn on his knees so he can look at them without straining his neck.

"You been watching some bad chick flick, Abs?" Tony asks.

Abby crosses her arms, sighs and narrows her eyes. "No. I just wish we were all nicer to each other. And that we spoke to each other like we would if we knew we were about to die."

Ziva frowns. This is morbid, even for her. She does not enjoy the uncomfortable feeling in her stomach, and so takes a page from the Book of DiNozzo and tries to lighten the mood.

"Well, Tony is about to pass his CPR recertification," Ziva tells her, gesturing at her partner with her coffee. "If I died, I have no doubt he would be able to resuscitate me so we could continue with whatever argument we were having when I died."

Tony's smile suggests that he's amused by the thought, but Abby rolls her eyes and pouts.

"You two _would_ argue in the ambulance on the way to the ER after almost dying," she mutters. It is clear that she does not see the humor in it.

But Tony does. "Probably. It depends on whose fault the almost dying was. Was it Ziva's? It was probably Ziva's," he decides.

It is a hypothetical situation, and yet Ziva is outraged by the suggestion. "You cannot be serious."

"As a bullet to the chest," Tony returns. "If I'm doing CPR to save you, it means _you've_ screwed up."

"It is far more likely that I will have taken a bullet to the chest in an effort to save you after _you_ have screwed up," she fires back.

Tony wags a stern finger at her. "You should have been wearing your bullet proof vest, David. Rookie mistake."

"Would you stop it?" Abby cuts in, her voice rising with frustration. "What did I just say about being nicer to each other?"

Ziva gives up, because as much fun as arguing with Tony is (and it is; she _would_ argue with him post-bullet because it would lift her mood), dealing with a cranky and emotional Abby is too tiring.

"Sorry, Abby," she says, and then throws Tony one last scowl to end the argument.

"Yeah, sorry, Abs," he adds, and then smiles under Ziva's glare. He enjoys it as much as she does.

"So, what were you fighting over?" Abby asks.

"Nothing," Ziva replies with a shrug.

Tony sticks his tongue into his cheek as he looks between them, and Ziva realizes he is about to counter her point of view. She is at a loss to explain why, though.

"Actually," Tony begins, "Ziva went to a bachelorette party on the weekend for her friend Olivia, and they went to roller derby."

Abby's face lights up as she turns to Ziva. "That was this weekend? How was it?"

"A lot of fun," Ziva says with a smile. "I knocked a woman unconscious."

"Really?"

"She thought she could get away with trying to block me," Ziva explains, and then shakes her head and chuckles. "I do not think so."

"Someone said Emma Park wants to get a league going."

With uncharacteristic excitement, Ziva grabs on to Abby's arm. "She does. And you should be on our team."

Abby touches her heart, as if the invitation to beat the hell out of people within the confines of an organized sport is the kindest she has ever been extended. "I would _love_ to."

"Excuse me," Tony cuts in, rising to his feet above the dummy. "I'm a fan of this development, and if you're looking for a team manager then I'm your guy. But I wasn't done explaining why I was vaguely upset with Ziva about the party."

"Oh," Abby says, as she returns to the conversation Tony wanted to have. She winces at Ziva. "Did you drunk dial him?"

Ziva almost chokes on her coffee. "No!" she insists as she wipes her chin.

Tony stands in front of them with his hands on his hips and addresses Abby. "She wouldn't even let me see a photo of her outfit because she thinks I'm being some dirty pervert."

He has hit the nail on the head, and Ziva has no shame in looking at Abby with a request to join her side of the argument. Abby smirks and then looks up at Tony with 'duh' written all over her face.

"Well, why else would you want to see it if not to perve?"

Tony's face takes on the expression he gets when he's backed himself into an inappropriate corner and can't see an escape hatch. Ziva is extremely familiar with it.

"Just for fun," he tries weakly. "I'm her partner. We're supposed to share everything."

Ziva gives him a mockingly sympathetic look. "Oh, I am sorry, Tony." She holds up her coffee cup and shakes the last inch of coffee at him. "Do you want the rest? You jut have to ask."

He glares at her but grabs the cup anyway. "It's your turn to make out with the dummy."

She drops her eyes to give him the once-over. "Later," she tells him with a wink. "First, I have to perform CPR on the teaching doll."

She slides off the autopsy slab with a self-satisfied smirk and saunters over to the doll. Tony takes her spot on the metal table beside Abby and looks at his friend. He ignores her bemused, knowing look and jerks his head towards Ziva.

"This is what I live with every day," he tells her.

"Seems to me that you kind of like it," Abby replies.

Tony turns his eyes to watch his partner who is now on her knees, facing them and leaning over the dummy with her hands planted in the centre of its chest. She is wearing a loose v-neck t-shirt today, and from this angle he can just about see down the front of it.

"Better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick," he decides. He takes a sip of Ziva's coffee, and the unexpected strength of it pulls his face in all directions before he slams his hand down on the table. "GAH!"

"Oh, it is a triple espresso," she tells him offhandedly. "I forgot to mention that."

"I think my esophagus is melting."

"I had a late night," she tells him, and then leans down to give the dummy a little mouth-to-mouth.

Tony aims a disgusted look at the coffee and passes it off to Abby. "I know your social life, Ziva. And I know you weren't doing anything to keep you up so late last night that you need to drink paint stripper this morning."

Ziva lifts her head to do a series of chest compressions. "Tony, be quiet while I try to save a life."

He ignores her. "Were you watching the Cary Grant marathon?"

"I got as far as _An Affair to Remember_," she replies.

"All the way to the end?"

"No. Just until she got hit by the car."

Tony looks at her as if she's insane. "That's where you gave up? But that's when the movie really starts."

"I was _tired_," Ziva argues, and then leans down to blow air into the dummy's mouth.

Tony turns to Abby with disappointment on his face. "She's progressing, but she's never going to graduate my class if she gives up on classic movies halfway through them."

Abby appears unimpressed by his frustration. "Careful. You came very close to saying something nice then," she deadpans.

Tony looks back at his partner on the floor. "Okay, here's something nice. If Ziva had tongue-kissed me like that when we were undercover, we would probably have babies by now."

He's already laughing at his own joke when Ziva straightens again and her hands find her hips with force.

"I am not tongue-kissing it!" she cries, seemingly appalled by the part of the comment that wasn't actually intended to offend. "Why would you use your tongue during CPR? That makes _no sense!_"

"Well, you shouldn't," Tony agrees. "But it does look like you're having some fun down there."

"I have heard that before."

Abby groans with a mixture of disgust and frustration, but before she can take them to task again about being nice and kind and cherishing each moment her cell phone beeps. She reaches into her pocket to pull it out and read the message, and her frown is wiped away by excitement.

"Oh! I gotta go!" she says, and jumps off the table. "Major mass spec just texted me that he's found something."

"Your mass spectrometer sends you text messages?" Tony asks.

"Yeah, of course," she says with a smile that suggests he's adorable for doubting it. As she backs up towards the autopsy doors, she points at both of them. "Promise me you'll say something nice to each other today."

Ziva snorts dismissively as Tony gives Abby a half-hearted salute.

"Sure thing, Abs."

Abby looks between them with narrowed eyes. "One day, you're going to regret this," she tells them. "Not being nicer to each other. Mark my words." Then she spins, pigtails flying around her, and heads for the elevator.

Ziva waits until she hears the _ding_ of the elevator before addressing their friend's behavior. "Do you know what is going on with her?"

Tony shakes his head. "Not a clue."

"I suppose it is somewhat comforting that some things never change."

He nods and watches her as she begins a final series of chest compressions. Her brow is creased as she concentrates on delivering the right amount of pressure to the dummy's chest, but he knows she's still in a good mood. He decides he should probably take advantage of it.

"Actually, there is something that I wanted to say to you," he says.

Ziva looks up at him warily. "What?"

He fights to keep his poker face. "I thought you looked pretty nice in your roller derby outfit."

She stares at him for a few seconds as she tries to decide whether he's being serious or trying to trick her. She must decide on the former, because she slowly gets to her feet, crosses her arms, takes two steps over to him and narrows her eyes dangerously.

I did not show you a photo of it," she points out.

Tony smiles with glee, because even after seven years he hasn't learnt that taking pleasure in her discomfort is the fastest way to make her mad. "No. But I have other sources."

She takes another step towards him, and there is definitely something wrong with him because he finds this stalking act of hers pretty hot. "Emma Park would not have shown it to you either," she says.

His smile grows wider. "No. But she would have sent a copy to her new BF McGee. And Probie of the Year might've just seen fit to send it on to me."

She narrows her eyes even more, like she does right before she launches a full ninja attack. But one thing he _has_ learnt in seven years of working with her is the ability to tell her 'angry' expressions apart. The one she wears now lacks genuine bite, and he suspects it is just a continuation of her playful (the Ziva equivalent of playful, anyway) mood. He lifts his eyebrows at her, baiting her, and he thinks he catches to briefest of smiles before she reaches out lightning fast and sinks her hand into his breast pocket. Before he can react she's got his cell phone in her hand and is attacking the keypad.

"It's locked," he tells her condescendingly.

Ziva flips the phone around momentarily to show him that she's already cracked his password. He frowns.

"I only changed that this morning."

"That does not make you any less predictable," she informs him.

"You've just got no respect for privacy, do you?"

She arches an eyebrow at him. "About as much as you do."

She has a point. And it's not like he has anything incriminating on his phone. There's nothing interesting in his email or text logs, and he's not dumb enough to store inappropriate photos on his work phone. All she'll find is the email she's after. And the wince she aims at the screen tells him that she just has.

"See?" he says.

Ziva chuckles, hits a few keys and hands the phone back to him. "Whoops. I deleted it."

He chuckles back. "You think that's the only copy I have? I sent that on to my home account as soon as I got it. And printed out hard copies. And made it my desktop screensaver."

She looks genuinely angry about that. "You better not have."

"Relax. Of course I didn't." He makes a note to himself to remove the screensaver as soon as he gets back to his desk.

She lifts her chin and squares her shoulders. "For the record. I think I looked better than 'pretty good', as you say."

He thinks about the image currently burning a hole in his desk drawer. Ziva in black roller skates, black and white striped knee socks, a very short red skirt and matching red vest. Her hair had been tied in two long braids and secured with very un-Ziva-like red ribbons. He agrees that she looked a hundred times better than 'pretty good', but he can't just hand it to her. "I was trying to steer my comments away from blatant sexual harassment," he explains.

Ziva looks at him with mild irritation and then turns back to the dummy. She lifts it by its shoulder joints and then heaves it over the autopsy table where is lands with a _thud_. The solid hit makes her coffee cup topple over, but Tony grabs it before the dregs leak out over the gleaming steel and then tosses it into the trashcan.

"Are we done?" she asks."

He shrugs a _yes_ and leads her to the door. As they stand by the lift, he remembers one part of the roller derby outfit that caught his attention. Well, even more than the rest. Even more than the red ribbons tied into bows. He looks over her and nudges her with his elbow.

"Hey, you were number 23."

Ziva frowns up at him. "Number 23 in what?"

"Your roller derby number," he elaborates. "You were 23. It was on your arm with black marker."

She faces forward again. "Oh. Yes, I was."

The elevator dings and the doors open, and Ziva leads the way inside.

"That was my jersey number," he tells her. "In college. I was 23."

Ziva crosses her arms and leans against the back wall. He's not completely sure, but he thinks there's the hint of a smile fighting through her practiced poker face. "Oh," she replies casually. "What a co-incidence."

And if not for that Mona Lisa smile of hers, he might have believed that's all it was.


	9. Torture

**Still working on this one every now and then. My sincere appreciation goes to all who are still following along.**  
><strong>Disclaimer: Disclaimed.<strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Torture<strong>

She is intimately familiar with the concept of torture.

It is not something Ziva likes to think about in her new life as an American citizen, but her personal involvement in acts of cruelty has directed her moral compass. She understands the usefulness of torture. She has witnessed first hand how effectively it can coerce a person into spilling the secrets they always imagined they would die protecting. She has seen sadists derive thrills from causing another person pain for no other reason than they wish to inflict it. And while on the receiving end of such pain, she has seen how the addictive power over another person can turn a garden-variety asshole evil.

Ziva does not engage in such practices anymore, although she still believes that there are times when the ends justifies the means. Matters of national security. Or familial protection. But while those situations call for the infliction of torture upon another, she has never seen the point in torturing oneself. Mentally and emotionally, yes, she tortures herself every single day. But physically? That is another matter. She does not understand the release of emotional hurt that some may get from physical pain. And although she accepts that the practice exists, she does not understand the sexual thrill that some derive from self-harm.

She accepts that these are extreme cases, and that perhaps she is not _meant_ to understand them. But what of the daily torture that so many women subject themselves to? Quite aside from the plucking and the waxing that delivers momentary pain to its subject, what about the torture that drags on for hours at a time courtesy of impractical stilettos and skin-tight clothing? Why do women do it to themselves? Why is such pain accepted as part of their lives? How on earth can anyone feel good about how they look when all they can feel below their neck is constant, intense, burning agony?

These are the questions Ziva finds herself considering as she attempts to exit one of the District's new and trendy bars with her dignity in tact. She has spent the last two hours talking and flirting and giggling with a 24-year-old baby-faced grad student Team Gibbs suspects of hiding evidence for the suspect in their latest case. Gibbs and McGee had attempted to question the 'man' the day before, but found him unhelpful and standoffish. With no good reason to bring him in for questioning, the decision was made to switch to more creative means of extracting the information.

Or should that be more _objectionable_ means?

Because Ziva wears so much makeup tonight that she feels her eyes drooping under the weight of false lashes and four different shades of eye shadow. Lipstick covered by lip-gloss had her lips sticking to each other and to cocktail glasses all night, and her skin is already breaking out in protest over being covered in the type of foundation favored by drag queens. She supposes the sky-high heels and shrink-wrapped dress are normal for the kind of bar she spent the evening in—indeed, she had been surrounded by nearly identical-looking women—but she hopes that she will never feel the need to get laid so badly that she would consider binding her body in Lycra and her feet in sharply pointed stilettos a reasonable trade. In Ziva's mind, 'hot' does not necessarily mean 'tight and short enough to turn the casual observer into a gynecologist'.

On the street outside the bar, a strong gust of icy wind whips around and between her bare thighs, and a gasp is torn from Ziva's throat before it is followed up with an expletive. Tony is walking beside her—he charged into the bar, playing the role of the jealous boyfriend right after Ziva finally got a piece of useful information from her 'date' and rescuing her from further torture—and he wordlessly takes off his knee-length woolen coat and holds it out for her. She eyes it longingly, but there is a problem. If she puts that coat on by herself she will have to lift her arms above shoulder height, and doing that will surely be the flimsy excuse her tortured breasts have been looking for all night to escape the confines of the sequined pressure bandage that is masquerading as her dress.

She stops walking, turns her back to her partner and holds her arms just out from her hips. "Could you help?" she asks breathlessly. Everything she has said tonight has come out breathlessly. It is not a deliberate act to appear sexier to their suspect, although it did seem to help. Rather, it is because she has not been able to draw a full breath since she wrestled herself into the dress earlier in the evening. She feels as though she has run a marathon through the Andes.

Tony slides the coat up her arms and over her shoulders. "Better?"

The strangled cry she lets out is meant to be a response in the affirmative, but she is not sure if Tony understands her. Nor does she care. Oxygen deprivation mixed with three gin and tonics and almost unbearable agony below her neck has made her light-headed, and she is not particularly interested in anything except getting out of these clothes as soon as possible.

"Where is Gibbs parked?" she asks. He and Tony had been monitoring her date via a transmitter in her necklace, and so she knows the sedan must be nearby. But her eyes are beginning to water and she cannot make enough sense of her surroundings to determine how close she is to her getaway car.

"Just around the corner," Tony replies.

She wants to ask exactly how many feet and inches away 'just around the corner' is, but even if he told her she doubts she would be able to convert the information into a useable reference right now.

"I do not normally like to admit this," she says, "but…I am in so much pain."

Tony turns to look at her, and his expression is one of genuine befuddlement. "From what?"

"The shoes," she breathes. "The dress."

He shoots another appraising look at her. "Really?"

She draws the deepest breath she can and feels tears burn the back of her eyes. "I might cry."

Tony reacts as if she just outlaid plans to vomit into his coat. "What? No! Hold it, Ziva. The car's right there."

He points towards the sedan sitting 15 feet away, but that is too far for her to consider travelling. Under normal circumstances her pride would carry her the distance, but under normal circumstances she does not feel as if there are a thousand knives driving into her feet. She stops abruptly and waves at Gibbs to come to them. To her relief, the sedan's headlights flick on and she hears the engine turn over.

She senses that her partner is having trouble accepting her defeat, but the threat of tears has welded his mouth shut. He waits patiently by her side as the sedan crawls up the street, and then has the grace to open the back door for her. Ziva collapses rather than sits on the back seat, and once Tony is safely in the passenger seat Gibbs puts his foot to the floor and they shoot forward down the street.

"Please tell me you are satisfied with the information he provided," she says to Gibbs.

Piercing blue eyes glance her way in the rear view mirror, and the slightest crinkling around the corners is enough to tell her that he is satisfied with her efforts.

"You did good, David," he tells her. "We'll look it up tonight and head up in the morning."

"So I can get undressed?"

The question draws two faces in her direction. One wears an expression of trepidation, the other of encouragement.

"You don't need to go back to the bar," Gibbs non-answers.

It is good enough for her. She cannot wait until they get all the way back to the Navy Yard to rid herself of this costume, and so she decides that the backseat of a Government-issue Charger is good enough to be her changing room.

The shoes are the first to go. At first she tries simply toeing the offending items off, but they are so tight that they appear to have welded themselves onto the soles of her feet. She reaches down to grab the heel of her left shoe and pulls with all her might. A brief struggle ensues as skin fights with synthetic leather until the shoe submits and comes off with an audible pop. Although the shoe gives up the war it does not do so without a final fight, and takes a strip of flesh from the joint of her big toe. She considers this a small price to pay when ten minutes ago she would have gladly cut off her toes to rid herself of the bear trap. She throws the shoe across the back seat and it hits the opposite door with a soft thud before falling into the foot well. The right shoe follows the left after another wrestling match and another piece of lost skin, and Ziva takes a full minute to just flex her toes, roll her ankles, and indulge in the pure relief of podiatric freedom. Perhaps she is being overly dramatic, but the feeling of relief in her feet right now is better than the last orgasm she had.

That leaves the dress. She would give her stinging left foot for a t-shirt and pair of track pants right now, but she did not think ahead. Tony's coat, however, is certainly large enough on her to offer an appropriate level of modesty for the dash from the car to the locker rooms in the NCIS building. Like her makeshift dressing room, the coat will have to do.

She reaches behind her for her zipper, and out of the corner of her eye she catches movement from the front seat. She looks up in time to see Gibbs plant his hand on the side of Tony's head and forcibly turn it away from her, and then adjust the rear view mirror until her privacy is secured. It is a nice touch, but frankly she could not care less if either man bares witness to her effort to disrobe. Tony has seen her naked before. Gibbs has not, and her preference is that he never does. But the agony caused by the dress is making her even less risk adverse than she usually is. At the end of the day, she believes Gibbs would be made more uncomfortable by a flash of her bare breast than she would be made by him seeing it.

Even still, she scoots along the back seat until she has enough room to lie semi-reclined. She peels the bodice down and over itself until it reaches her hips, and then shoves it over her wriggling hips and drags it down her legs. She sits up again to remove it from around her feet, and then hurls it into the front seat, as far away from her as possible.

"DIE!" she screams through her gritted teeth.

Tony jumps two feet out of his seat as a pile of gold sequins brushes past his ear at speed and lands on the dashboard in front of him. "What did I do?" he demands to know.

"I am talking to the dress," she snaps, and draws his coat around her semi-naked body. "It has been attempting to squeeze me to death all night."

The dress is lifted by a single DiNozzo finger to dangle in front of his face. "But you would've made a beautiful corpse."

The urge to punch him in the back of the head is strong. But she has more important things to do right now. Like breathing. She draws the deepest breath her lungs will allow and then lets it out slowly. The oxygen rushing back into her brain is like another little orgasm, and she falls back against the seat back with a small smile.

"Yes," she sighs.

Tony believes she is still talking to him. "I'm glad we agree."

As Ziva draws another deep breath she begins to wonder if she understands this self-inflicted torture thing after all. Because if this is how you are supposed to feel at the end of it…

No, she decides as she lets her head roll to the side until her forehead meets the window. The relief she feels now is certainly delicious, but a night of great sex will always be better. If only she knew she had nights of great sex coming to her in the future. She opens her eyes to look into the side mirror on the passenger side of the car, and she feels a jolt of surprise when she meets Tony's eyes. He is looking at her with the ghost of a smirk that makes her whole body flush, although she can't work out her reaction. And she cannot work out why she decides it is a good idea to flash a smile back at him that telegraphs her thoughts. Perhaps her head is still muddled after her near-asphyxiation. Or from the three gin and tonics she had. Or because the coat her near-naked body is currently wrapped in is soaked in the smell of him.

Whatever the reason, her partner seems encouraging of it. His smile grows wider as his eyes narrow and his head barely turns to the side, as if he is considering the cause of the smile. She did not grow up in the US, but Ziva has heard the _first base, second base, third base_ euphemisms. She wonders which base her smile just invited him to.

…

Forty-five minutes later she has showered, scrubbed off most of the makeup and changed into a soft sweatshirt and yoga pants. Shoes are not an option. She has blisters on top of blisters, and the balls of her feet are throbbing in her socks as she returns to the bullpen. Half a packet of Band-Aids is holding her skin together, and she knows that by the time she gets home the other half of the pack will be needed.

And yet, she feels better now than she has all night.

There is a takeaway cup of tea waiting on her desk for her, and she looks to the only other person in the bullpen.

"What is this?" she asks, pointing.

Tony glances up from his computer, and sends her another smirk that has a much greater effect on her than it should. "It's tea, Zee-vah. It's supposed to be calming."

"Where did you get tea?"

"From the coffee shop," he says, and lifts his cup to illustrate that while she was in the shower and scrubbing away four layers of makeup, he has been on a drink-finding missing.

She drops into her chair. "Oh. Thank you."

"How are your feet?"

She glances down at the thick grey socks covering the carnage. "Bloody and blistered," she replies. "I will be wearing slippers to work tomorrow."

The wince he sends her is over the top, even for DiNozzo. It is clear that he has news that she will not like, and she feels her face fall at the possibilities.

"What?" she demands.

Tony throws her a smile that is meant to disarm before swallowing nervously and gesturing towards Gibbs' empty desk. "The boss," he starts, shifting the blame right away. "He wants to go looking for that cabin your date tonight said he likes to visit."

Ziva stares at him as she tries to access that part of the night's conversation from her memory banks. "He likes to spend time in Shenandoah."

Her partner nods. "Yeah. Gibbs wants to get up there tomorrow."

"Okay."

He pauses. "McGee did a little Google Earthing while you were downstairs. The cabin we think he's talking about? It's not exactly accessible by road."

And the other pointy-toed stiletto drops.

"We will be hiking," she sums up.

Tony shoots her another wince. "You know any crazy Mossad tricks for healing blisters overnight?"

Ziva draws a deep breath and closes her eyes as she searches for calm. The thought of spending the day with hiking boots strapped to her feet would not normally make her want to scream. But she finds the urge almost overwhelming now. Flexing her toes in her socks brings burning pain to her skin and muscles, and she wonders if she might have actually broken a bone or two.

"Okay," she says at length, accepting her fate.

"The good news is that you don't have to hike in stilettos and a tiny dress," Tony tells her.

She opens her eyes to glare at him. Tony's smile falls and he points at the cup on her desk.

"Tea, Ziva," he says. "It's calming."

She tests the temperature of the black tea before taking a large, uncouth gulp. Ducky may be appalled by her etiquette, but she needs to be calmed as soon as possible.

"Pants like what you're wearing now would probably be more appropriate."

His words could be dismissed as innocent, but his tone most certainly cannot. She has heard it before, most recently when it was aimed at a roller derby outfit, but she does not understand why he brings it out again tonight.

"_This_ is hot to you?" she asks, gesturing at her sweatshirt and yoga pants with disbelief.

"Yeah," he replies quickly, chuckling at her surprise.

"This?" she repeats. "This is better than the napkin-sized dress and heels?"

One shoulder lifts and drops again. "That was hot too. But you look more comfortable in that." He waves his hand at her outfit. "You're more likely to smile and laugh when you're wearing that. And that's much sexier than that forced, pained smile thing you were doing at the bar."

The warmth of flattery spreads through her, and she is not used to such words coming out of Tony's mouth. That is what makes her suspicious. "If I recall correctly, you have a natural predilection for tiny dresses and high heels and fainty…quaint. Quainty?" She frowns as the correct word escapes her and looks to him for help.

"Dainty," he supplies with a roll of his eyes, and then a shake of his head. "Predilections aside, you still look hot right now."

The admission should not affect her as much as it does. She is aware of him watching her, and so she falls into the routine she has perfected. She drops her head to the side and sends him a withering look. In response, Tony falls into the routine he has perfected. He shoots her a smile that says that he doesn't buy her routine.

"Is this red light behavior?" she asks.

Tony breaks into a full smile. "I've checked the code of conduct. It's not explicitly defined."

She nods and then pushes her chair back and stands on throbbing feet. There is a feeling in her gut that if she lets this conversation go on for too long then they might cross a line that she is not convinced they are ready to cross. And besides, the tea, the gin and all the breath-holding she has done tonight has made her too sleepy. It is time for bed.

She switches off her computer and grabs her bag, and then unhooks Tony's coat from the back of her chair. He watches her with smiling eyes as she approaches his desk and holds out his coat.

"Thank you for your chivalry."

He takes the coat with a bob of his head. "You're welcome," he says, and then pauses. "Out of curiosity, how naked were you underneath it?"

Ziva rolls her eyes, turns her back and grabs her cup of tea off her desk before heading to the elevator. "Definitely red light behavior, DiNozzo," she calls over her shoulder.

"If you don't tell me, I'm just going to use my imagination," he threatens.

With her back to him she allows herself to chuckle. She has no doubt he has already done that. "Good night."

"Sleep tight," he rejoins, and then adds as an afterthought, "Can't wait for tomorrow's hike."


	10. Tequila

**A/N: Still working on this one sporadically. Hope you enjoy the quick shot of fluff.  
>Disclaimer: Disclaimed.<strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Tequila<strong>

The first thing she thinks upon waking is that tequila is the demon drink.

The second thing she thinks is that with her head throbbing the way it does, she must have sustained a head injury.

The third thing she thinks is that if that knocking on her door doesn't stop soon she is going to rip her own ears off.

She moans disagreeably into her pillow, but she is not surprised when the half-hearted (quarter-hearted?) attempt to demand silence does not yield results. The knocking continues and although she tries, Ziva cannot successfully ignore it. She realizes that the only way to make it stop is to address it head on, and then perhaps throw up on the unwelcome visitor.

She rolls to her feet, stumbles as the room spins and bumps into no less than four pieces of furniture as she shuffles out of her bedroom, down the hallway and towards her front door. The knocking continues, making the pounding in her head grow, and by the time she reaches for the deadbolt she feels that someone is driving and ice pick into her forehead right beneath the crease of her frown.

She can think of nothing she has done lately to deserve such torture.

She manages to unlock the deadbolt on her second try and then, as her stomach rolls with the unwelcome warning of imminent expulsion of contents, she swings the door open.

The knocking stops. Blessed silence. Until her partner looks her up and down and then bursts out laughing at whatever it is that he sees.

"Wow," Tony chuckles, and she doubts that the awe in his tone can be attributed to anything good. "I'm sorry, ma'am. I think I have the wrong apartment. I'm looking for Ziva."

Ziva curls her lip and throws him a brief look of irritation before turning around and heading back down the hallway. She hears Tony close the door and follow her, but she doubts he wants to witness what she is about to do.

"So. How was the wedding?" Tony asks after her.

Despite her epic hangover, it takes Tony mentioning Olivia's wedding for Ziva to remember why she is in her current state of pain. Then she remembers the tequila shots. And the mojitos. And the…yellow thing with the fruit that made her feel like her legs had been detached from her body. The memory of the smell of that particular cocktail returns to her, and although it has to be in her head (or maybe it is actually spilled through her hair) it is enough to make her stomach roll again. Tony's question goes unanswered as she dashes for the bathroom and manages to get her face over the toilet bowl a heartbeat before the dam opens.

Coping with alcohol poisoning was not in her list of things to do today.

In a rare display of respect for her dignity, Tony allows her time alone with the porcelain. She spends God only knows how many minutes swearing to herself that she will never, ever do this again until finally she feels confident enough to get to her feet, flush, wash up, and leave the bathroom. In the hallway Tony offers her a glass of water with a smile that confirms his enjoyment of her predicament, but she cannot muster the energy to be embarrassed. Perhaps it will return to her once she has been sufficiently hydrated.

She takes the glass with a 'thank you' that gets lost in her mouth. The first sip of the cool, suddenly delicious water helps to wash the taste of debauchery from her mouth, and the second helps to turn the shag pile rug masquerading as her tongue into a flat pile. It is an improvement.

"I get the feeling that I got you out of bed," Tony says conversationally.

Ziva rubs her eyes with her free hand and aims her feet in the direction of her bedroom. Yes, he got her out of bed, and now she is determined to return to it. "What are you doing here?" she asks, her voice rasping as she speaks her first real words of the day.

"Boss Man got a call," Tony tells her as they enter the welcome darkness of her bedroom.

She makes a noise that is somewhere between a groan and a whine, puts the glass of water on her bedside table, and then collapses face-first onto her mattress. "I took a personal day," she protests into her pillow. "I knew we would be on call this weekend, but I had the wedding so I took a personal day. Gibbs approved it."

"He knows," Tony replies. "But he told me to check with you anyway."

The last thing she needs in her current state of residual intoxication and burgeoning hangover agony is to attend a crime scene. She has never thrown up at the sight of a dead body—even one in many, many pieces—but if she were ever to break that streak, then today would be the day. The loss of professional pride is not worth it. And the loss of a limb at Gibbs' hand should she throw up and contaminate a crime scene would make the remainder of her life difficult.

"I do not think it would be a good idea for me to attend," she begins, but Tony's chuckle cuts her off from having to defend herself.

"No kidding," he says, and takes a seat by her hip on her mattress. "I think you're still drunk."

She scrunches up her nose and cracks open an eye to look at him. "I do not think that is the case."

He gives her a look of disbelief so exaggerated that she wonders if he has pulled a muscle. "Are you kidding? When was your last drink?"

"I have no idea," she replies honestly.

"How much did you have?"

Her response is to groan and turn her face into her pillow again. If she thinks too hard about that she knows she will throw up some more.

"Yeah," he says, as if that settles the argument. And it does.

"I still do not think I should come in."

"Agreed," he says. "You're full of good ideas."

She thinks he might be making fun of her.

"You going to be okay?" he asks.

She turns onto her back and blinks up at him. "Yes. But can you please double check that there is not a pick axe sticking out of my head?"

His eyes are bright with humor as he replies, "It's kind of hard to tell, Ziva. Your hair's a mess. But it doesn't appear so."

"Porcuswine," she says, suddenly remembering witnessing Tony's hangover a hundred years ago, and then covers her mouth as she yawns.

"More like woolly mammoth," Tony replies.

She throws a fist at him that misses by two feet. He gently taps the side of her thigh and stands again.

"I'll let Gibbs know that you're half dead."

"Feel free to remind him that he said I could have the day off," she says irritably. "And that I reminded him on Friday. And that he responded when I reminded him."

"Yeah, I'm probably not going to do that," Tony says over his shoulder as he heads for the door.

Ziva shrugs to herself. She will not have a problem with reminding Gibbs herself when she returns to work tomorrow.

She is about to roll over and go back to sleep when the ghost of a memory from last night returns to her and she sits up. "Tony? Did I call you last night?"

He pauses by her bedroom door. "No."

She frowns. That doesn't feel right. She is almost positive that she spoke to him deep into the night's festivities, and for a while. But she doesn't detect deception on his face. "Oh."

"Why?"

"I thought I did."

Tony shakes his head. "About what?"

She pauses and tries to retrieve the information from the champagne-soaked memories in the back of her head. There is a feeling in her chest that suggests she might be embarrassed if she found them, but she can't. "I cannot remember."

"You didn't call me," he assures her.

"Okay." She accepts his word as the truth. Until she can prove otherwise. She realizes that her cell phone might hold the answers, and lifts her head from her pillow. "Can you see my purse anywhere?"

Tony spends exactly three nanoseconds looking. "No."

"Can you please call me?"

"When?"

Ziva covers her eyes with her hand, wishing he would cooperate with her. "Now," she says, her voice muffled and tired. "So I can hear my phone and work out where it is."

"Oh."

He pulls out his phone and speed dials her. After a second or two of silence a soft ringing comes from the living room. Tony goes to investigate and returns with her bright blue clutch.

"Ma'am," he says, handing it over.

"Thank you." She unclasps the clutch, upends it and dumps the content on her bed. Her phone falls out with her driver's license, a ten-dollar note, some change and lipstick. She picks up her phone and turns it on.

"Where's the lucky guy?" Tony asks as she enters her password.

"Hmm?"

"Your new husband."

She looks over at his with an exaggerated frown. "My what?" She often does not understand the comments Tony makes, but this one is particularly perplexing.

Tony smirks and then reaches over to take her hand and hold it up to her face. She focuses on the understated diamond ring on her finger, and she finally understands his joke.

"Oh. It was my grandmother's. It matched my dress."

Tony looks her up and down appraisingly, and she drops her eyes to look over herself too. It is only then that she realizes she is still wearing the shiny gunmetal mini dress she wore to the wedding. She is appalled to see that it has twisted itself off-centre, but relieved that she has not been flashing her partner this whole time. She is not sure he would have said anything.

"It's pretty."

She yanks the top of her dress upwards self-consciously. "The ring or the dress?"

"The ring," he says. "The dress looks a little worse for wear. But I'm sure it was a knockout last night."

"Thank you," she says softly as her cheeks inexplicably start to burn. She access her phone logs and checks that she did not call Tony last night. His name doesn't appear on the list until yesterday afternoon. She finds that she only made two calls last night. One was to a taxi company, and one was to a cell phone number she does not recognize. "Hunh."

"Who got the booty call?" Tony wants to know.

"I have no idea." She shows him the number, and after a few moments of consideration Tony shrugs. He doesn't know either.

"I gotta go," he says as he stands. "There's a lot of work to do when we're down one team member."

"Shut up."

"I'm going to ignore than and turn on your coffee machine on my way out," he tells her.

She gasps looks up at him with unfiltered gratitude. "I will have two of your children," she tells him. Perhaps the two acts are not of equal standing, but she really would like some coffee right now.

Tony looks momentarily lost for words before the DiNozzo autopilot takes over. "Only two? Where am I going to get the other three from?"

She doesn't believe for a second that he wants five kids, but it is not a serious conversation anyway. "I do not care," she tells him, and then yawns again. "Some skank."

"That certainly helps with my forward planning," he says. "Thank you."

She nods as she considers getting out of bed again. They have been talking for long enough that she feels more awake than sleepy. "I think I will throw up again, and then I will be ready for coffee."

Tony's lip curls in disgust. "I don't want to know about that. I'll see you tomorrow." He leaves the room, but a moment later he pops his head back in again and waves a hand in her direction. "Put your hair back before you puke."

She gives him a vague salute and he disappears again. A minute later she hears kitchen drawers and cabinets opening and closing, and she looks down at her phone again. On a whim she decides to call the mystery number. It rings only a few times before being answered.

"Hey, Ziva," Emma Park answers.

"Emma," Ziva says, frowning. "Whose phone are you using?"

"Mine," Emma replies with a chuckle. "You called it, right?"

Ziva drops her forehead to her hand as she tries to work this out. "No, I called a number from my call log that I don't recognize."

"It's my personal cell," Emma tells her. "Not my work one."

"Oh. Did I talk to you last night?"

Emma chuckles with glee to rival Tony's. "You don't remember? You were pretty drunk."

Ziva groans. "I am sorry."

"Don't be," Emma says. "It was an entertaining 30 minutes."

Ziva is not sure she wants to know what was so entertaining, but is compelled to ask anyway. "Why?"

"Because drunken, unfiltered Ziva gets pretty chatty."

She groans again, and that same feeling of dread she had in her chest when she asked Tony about the call returns. "Chatty?" she starts, but then Tony calls out from the kitchen.

"Hey, woolly mammoth? I'm leaving. Don't choke on your vomit."

She takes offence to the nickname (and, God help him, it better not stick), but is too distracted by the previous night's misdeeds to argue. "See you tomorrow," she calls back.

"Who was that?" Emma asks.

"Just Tony."

There is a gasp from Emma's end of the line, and then a voice filled with amused disbelief. "Oh. My. God."

Ziva's heart beat speeds up with panic, but she is not sure why. "What?"

"You went through with it?" Emma asks in an urgent hush. "You promised me you were going home. To _your_ home."

"I did…" Ziva trails off as the conversation from the night before comes back to her. It wasn't Tony who she called, but she talked _about_ him to Emma because all the hope and love and romance at the wedding made her want to make a trip to Tony's place. She called Emma to talk her down from making a drunken mistake. If she recalls correctly (and despite the haze she is almost positive she does), Emma had been completely unaware of her feelings for her partner, and proceeded to question her at length about them. As Emma had said, Ziva knows she had been quite _chatty_ in response.

The dread in her chest spreads to her arms, legs and stomach, and pushes her nausea towards her throat. She regrets every word spoken, aims a heaping does of anger at herself, and considers making a trip to the highest mountain she can find today and hurling herself off it. If the embarrassment doesn't kill her first.

But before she does that, there is one thing she desperately needs to do.

"Emma, I will have to call you back. I need to be sick."

* * *

><p><strong>I've been giving Ziva a lot of hangovers in my stories recently. I don't know why. I guess they're kind of funny when they're not yours. <strong>


	11. Engagement ring

**A/N: Another posting that isn't the next installment of Famiglia. But I hope you enjoy **_**this**_** installment of my random-moments-with-only-the-flimsiest-of-threads-holding-it-together collection instead. It's all empty calories with absolutely no nutritional value.  
>Disclaimer: Disclaimed.<strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Engagement ring<strong>

He wonders if this coffee shop is one of the richest in DC. There aren't too many places around with the kind of opening hours this place keeps. Doors open at 0400 and don't close again until midnight, and Tony has darkened the doorstep at every minute in between at one point or another. To his memory, he has never walked into an empty shop. No matter what the time, there is always at least one tired and haggard-looking NCIS agent slumped at a table.

This morning that agent is Bill Baxter, an analyst from computer forensics who worked with McGee for a few months back when Vance first took the directorship reigns and scattered Team Gibbs around the globe. Tony doesn't think he has ever held a conversation with the sandy-haired agent with the face of a teenager, and he doubts that will change today. The kid (although he'd have to be well into his 30s) has fallen asleep with his head on the wooden table, and an errant sachet of low-cal sweetener is doing its duty mopping up the drool that is puddling under the corner of Baxter's mouth. Tony feels a pang of sympathy (or it could be embarrassment) for the guy, and briefly considers poking him in the shoulder to wake him up. But Poh, the coffee shop's resident superhero, will probably do that when she takes him his order. Being awakened by a cute young barista bearing coffee will probably be more of a kick for the guy than being poked awake by a surly, not-quite-middle-aged (at least that's what he tells himself) agent. Tony leaves him alone.

"Poor kid," he mutters to McGee, his companion this early morning. He jerks his thumb at Baxter who truly seems unconscious and oblivious to the group of agents gathering in line around him just past seven in the morning.

McGee aims a look of sympathy and understanding at his former teammate. "I heard his team's closing in on 96 hours."

"If they get to 100, Vance might give them commemorative t-shirts."

McGee cocks an eyebrow and curls his lip in a way that suggests a screen printed Hanes probably wouldn't cut it. "Or he might let them take some overtime."

Tony laughs, because for once he hasn't had the most absurd idea. "Yeah. I bet that happens," he says with more than a little sarcasm.

"Stranger things have happened," McGee mutters as they reach the front of the line.

Poh stands at the ready to take their order, but as soon as she recognizes them her regular perky smile becomes a wide-eyed vision of complete excitement that causes both agents to take half a step backwards.

"Hey!" she practically yells, and then holds her hands out to the side as if delivering a huge present. "Oh my God! Congratulations!"

Tony's response to this unexpected greeting is to frown, blink slowly and then look at his partner. Maybe she's talking to McGee. He considers for a moment that he has forgotten a probie birthday, but McGee looks as clueless as Tony feels. They both turn their eyes back on Poh.

"Thanks," Tony says slowly. "For what?"

Poh chuckles and then points out what she thinks is the obvious. "You're getting married!" she says to Tony.

His frown switches to jaw-dropped shock and his heart switches to 'stopped' mode. "What's that now?" he splutters.

"Your girlfriend was in here this morning," Poh tells him, waving her hand back over her shoulder to signify past events. "She had a diamond on her finger."

His confusion deepens. He is acutely aware that he is making it through the years _sans chéri_, and in fact there aren't many women in his life at all. Even fewer who Poh would know about. Abby neither drinks coffee nor wears diamonds due to her moral objection to the ways in which both commodities are sourced. Borin chugs brew like she prefers it to air, but he doesn't recall ever coming into this coffee shop with her. He might've struck up a conversation with a female agent here before, but unless they have turned into a stalker there is only one woman to whom Poh could be referring. And that woman happened to be modeling a diamond ring to match her 'hangover couture' dress when he saw her the past weekend.

He feels his face grow warm and he glances at McGee to determine how big of a deal he is going to make this. If the wide grin that screams _schadenfreude_ on Tim's face is any indication, the answer is "a huge deal".

Out of the two, Poh is his preferred torturer. He returns his gaze to her and blocks out thoughts of the hell that surely awaits him at McGee's hands. "She's not my girlfriend," he tells Poh calmly. "And that isn't an engagement ring. It was her grandmother's and she was just wearing it for a wedding. Not hers!" her hastens to add. "Or ours. There's no…ours."

Poh listens patiently, but seems to have trouble accepting what he is telling her. "She's not your girlfriend?"

"No," Tony says firmly over the sounds of McGee's Beavis and Butthead-like chuckling. "We just work together."

"Yeah, I know you work together," Poh replies as her smile falls. "But I thought…I mean, because you're always looking…" She holds onto that thought at Tony's new expression of dread, and shifts her weight to her other foot. "You're not together?" she checks again.

"No."

Poh points her pen at him accusingly. "We're talking about, um, Zena? Is that her name? With the really long brown hair that's sometimes curly—"

"Right," he cuts in, not bothering to provide his _other_ partner's correct name because he just wants this to end.

Poh gives the story she's created in her head a final push. "And the widow's peak?"

"Yeah, not my girlfriend," he says quickly, shaking his head for emphasis. He chances a look at the agents in line behind them and milling around waiting for their coffees. But McGee is the only one paying attention. It's a small comfort. At least the NCIS rumor mill won't get more fuel today.

Poh sends him a suspicious look, and then looks down the counter towards one of the baristas working the coffee machine. "Hey, Marco?"

Tony groans inwardly at her inability to let the conversation die as Marco, a hairless tank of a man in his forties, looks up and then breaks into a big smile at the sight of Tony.

"Hey!" Marco says, taking a moment to leave the coffee machine and wipe his hands on a cloth before reaching over to shake Tony's hand solidly. "Congratulations! Big day, huh?"

Tony starts to shake his head, but Poh takes care of breaking the 'bad' news.

"No, they're not engaged," Poh tells Marco over the sound of McGee's full laughter. "He says they're not even dating. We have to start the pool again."

Tony feels a flash of panicked dizziness. "The pool?"

Marco doesn't answer the question, but instead looks at Tony as if the information he has just been fed cannot possibly be true. "You're not her boyfriend? Then who's she marrying? Is it this guy?" He jerks a thumb at McGee.

Tony glances at McGee to find that his face has turned red and tears are leaking out of his eyes. He looks away quickly.

"He says no one," Poh tells Marco, and then calls to a blonde waitress who has served Tony (and Ziva) a hundred times before. "Hey, Julie? We've got to start again on these two."

Julie stops by Tony with a tray of empty coffee cups balanced in one hand. She beams at him the way the other two did and briefly touches Tony's arm.

"Hey! I made a hundred bucks off you this morning. Thanks! And congratulations."

"He says they're not engaged and they're not even dating," Poh tells her. "You've got to give the hundred bucks back."

Julie gasps and clutches her chest. "No, I don't!" she argues, and then looks at Tony with a suspicious scowl. "What happened? Did you break up already?"

"You had a pool for me and Ziva?" Tony asks, finally putting the information together.

"We have pools for lots of people," Julie tells him. "Yours is the biggest, though. People have been adding to it for years. Why'd you break up?"

"We _didn't_," Tony impresses on her. "We were _never together_."

"But your boss is that silver-haired guy, right?" Poh asks. "Who smells like sawdust?"

He begins to lose the feeling in his body below the neck, making it hard to brace for the brutality of the information that is about to be shared.

"Yes," he says softly.

"We talked to him this morning about it for, like, five minutes after Ziva left," Poh tells him. "He said he was really happy for you guys and that he was looking forward to walking her down the aisle."

He feels a momentary pang of hope that Gibbs has provided his blessing for a union that is still not in existence and may never be. But he quickly realizes that Gibbs was most likely having a little fun just to screw with him. Classic Gibbs. You never see his pranks coming, but when they hit you, they knock you on your ass.

Knowing where the information originated calms his racing heart somewhat, and he gives McGee (who is crying with laughter again) a traitorous look. "Are you in on this little prank?"

McGee shakes his head and wipes tears off his cheeks. "I _wish_ I was in on it. This is awesome."

"So it's all Gibbs?"

McGee lifts a shoulder in a shrug. "I don't know. He's already my hero. This absolutely cements it."

Tony lets out a deep sigh and looks between the three coffee shop staffers who have been so happy for him this morning. "No engagement," he tells them, bursting their collective bubble definitively. "No wedding. No girlfriend."

"Oh," Poh says, visibly deflating. An awkward moment of silence follows before she resets their morning conversation. "So…venti cappuccino with three sugars?"

"Yes."

She looks at McGee. "Cinnamon latte with cream on top?"

McGee looks up at her from the message he's typing on his phone. "Oh, I won't need the cream today," he tells her with a smile. "Thanks."

They leave the counter to wait out their order. Tony lifts his chin and squares his shoulders as he tries to regain some of his pride. McGee's thumbs dancing over his cell phone screen draw his attention, though, and he gets a bad feeling in his gut.

"What are you doing?" he wants to know.

McGee shakes his head and makes a face of forced innocence. "Nothing. Just texting Abby. _Tony and Ziva engaged. Yay!_"

Tony makes a grab for the phone to prevent the fallout that particular bomb dropped on that particular target will cause. But McGee sees him coming, and although their brief wrestle is enough to bump Baxter awake finally, he manages to keep the phone out of Tony's reach long enough to bring his thumb down on the screen.

"Sent!"

Tony straightens his tie and tugs at his cuffs in an attempt to regain composure. But he still turns his best Ziva glare on the probie. "You're gonna pay for that."

McGee grins in response and holds his hand up as he counts down the seconds. "Five, four, three, two, one."

Right on time Tony's cell phone rings. He clenches his jaw as he pulls it from his pocket and checks caller ID. It's Abby.

"I'm going to chop you into little pieces and throw you into the Potomac," he warns McGee, and then answers his phone. "Abby, it's just a—"

His attempt at cutting Abby off before she gets started is futile. She is already going, although he cannot make out what she is yelling at him, exactly. He makes out words like "finally" and "Gibbs" and "ninja action babies", and her shrieks seem to be encouraging (which warms him, although he will keep that buried deep inside). He waits it out by glaring at McGee some more until she take a breath and he jumps in.

"Abby, McGee was joking. There's no engagement. No relationship. Gibbs is pulling a prank."

After a seconds-long pause during which he only hears Abby panting, she finally double-checks like a good little Gibbs Rules follower. "You're not engaged?"

"No."

"Not even a little bit?" she asks hopefully.

Tony throws his free hand into the air with exasperation. "How can you be just a _little bit_ engaged?" he asks, but doesn't wait for her explanation. "No, we're not. We're not together. We're friends. We're co-workers. That's it."

Abby begins her response with a snort. "Tony, I'll buy that you're not engaged, but don't act like there's nothing there between you. We all know there is. You know there is. She knows there is."

He's no closer now to having a response to the statement ready than he was the first time someone delivered it to him several years ago. Mostly because he knows she's right, but admitting it would cause too much trouble.

He settles for sighing her name before hanging up and pocketing his phone again. Then he crosses his arms and glares at the floor.

McGee does not share his angst. "This is going to be the most fun work day ever."

* * *

><p>Tony delays their arrival in the bullpen for as long as he can by walking at half speed. But McGee is determined to get in and begin the next phase of his torture, and Tony knows that he'll do more damage if he arrives alone. In the end, he has to follow.<p>

McGee practically skips off the elevator and over to Ziva's desk. Tony swallows the impulse to pull out his gun and shoot him.

"Oh my God!" McGee cries, parroting the staff from the coffee shop. "Congratulations, Ziva! I can't believe it finally happened!"

Ziva's pen pauses on its journey across her notepad and she looks up at McGee with genuine puzzlement. "What happened?" she asks.

Tony drives the toe of his shoe into the back of McGee's knee hard enough to make him stumble, but not enough to hurt. "McGee," he says warningly, but in his heart he knows that nothing he can say or do will take this moment of fun away from his 'friend'.

Indeed, McGee reaches out to hook his arm around Tony's neck and drag him in for a bro hug. It's as though the two have swapped bodies for the day.

"You guys are engaged!" he cries out happily.

Ziva's eyes bug out as Tony looks for a hole to crawl into.

"What?" she snaps, before turning damning eyes on Tony. He shakes his head firmly, rejecting blame, then all three of them turn to look at Gibbs.

The boss is sitting at his desk and is apparently focused on signing off on reports. But the smirk on his face speaks to his pride over a prank well-pulled, and it's clear he's enjoying the mess of confusion, fluster and glee he's created.

"Show me the ring!" McGee implores, and reaches for Ziva's left hand.

A diamond flashes under the skylight before the probie receives a ninja slap to the back of his grabby hand.

"Enough, McGee," Tony sighs, and makes an escape to his desk. "Take it any further and she'll take you outside and shoot you."

"What is going on?" Ziva demands to know.

McGee does his best impersonation of a breathless gossip girl. "Well. Me and Tony were just at the coffee shop and the staff were all congratulating him on giving you an engagement ring."

Dark, narrowed eyes cut to Tony. "Why would you tell people you gave me an engagement ring?"

"I didn't!" he insists. "You went in this morning with that _thing_ on your hand and I don't know why but they assumed you and me were getting married."

"They even had a betting pool," McGee is keep to point out. "One of the waitresses won a hundred bucks."

Ziva looks at the discreet, tasteful diamond on her finger with new and untrusting eyes. "It was my grandmother's," she begins to explain. It feels as though there is more to the story, but in the end she does not share it.

Tony leaves her with her bewilderment and cocks an eyebrow at the silver-haired man who smells like sawdust. "By the way, boss. They told me about the chat you had with them this morning after Ziva had been in."

Gibbs' eyes don't leave his file, but his smile grows without shame. "Well, it's happy news, DiNozzo."

"You're going to walk her down the aisle?" he says, repeating Poh's gossip in a tone that challenges Gibbs' interest.

Gibbs just nods. "Yup. And help pick the flowers."

Tony shakes his head with a mix of disbelief and awe. "Credit where credit's due. You got me good. But I'll get you back. I don't know how, but I will."

Gibbs chuckles at what he knows is an empty threat as McGee heads to his desk with a grin.

"I love today," he declares.

"It's a special day I'm sure we'll all remember, Tim," Gibbs rejoins.

As the others boot up their computers, Ziva looks between her three teammates with a frown.

"I am still confused," she admits.

Tony shakes his head at her, signaling that she should just let it go. Then Gibbs' cell phone rings and offers an excellent distraction.

"Yeah, it's Gibbs."

The other three watch him with keen interest. When he reaches for a pen they take it for the cue it is. They gather up their badges, guns and backpacks as Gibbs scrawls an address. By the time he hangs up and stands, they're ready to go.

"Dead sailor on a boat in the Chesapeake."

He leads the way to the elevator, and as they all pile in Tony catches Ziva sneaking a peek at the ring on her finger. His stomach knots, although not entirely unpleasantly. He looks away when he realizes that McGee and Gibbs are both watching him watch her. Suddenly the wall is very interesting.

He thinks they might get away without any more attention until the doors close and Gibbs lands a final kick.

"So. Where are you two setting up the gift registry?"

* * *

><p><strong>I feel like this is probably a trope but hopefully it didn't stink. One more installment to come.<strong>


	12. Interference

**A/N: Tying up loose ends. Here is the last of the Blended vignettes.  
>Disclaimer: A small minority seems to have forgotten this lately, so this is a reminder that I am not a mouthpiece for the show. I have nothing to do with the show. The situationsscenarios I come up with aren't 'sneak peaks' into what you will see in the future. So if you don't like it, try to relax. _It's just fanfic._**

* * *

><p><strong>Interference <strong>

"Agent David? It's Michelle Lancaster."

Even without the introduction Ziva is sure she would have been able to place the friendly (_overly_ friendly) voice over the phone line. As a witness in a just-closed murder investigation, Michelle has spent hours and hours over the past week either at NCIS being interviewed or at home being interviewed or on the phone with Ziva…being interviewed. Ziva has been hearing Michelle's voice in her sleep and running her words over and over in her head as she and the rest of Team Gibbs worked on tracking down a killer. But that's not the only reason why Michelle and her friendly voice have been stuck in Ziva's head.

The woman who came into Ziva's life just five days ago had, for unknown reasons, made it her mission to set Ziva up with one of her friends. Just hours after Ziva had politely sidestepped a conversation about her status as a single woman (she had _almost_ been driven to put that stupid ring of her grandmother's back on just to stop the questioning), Michelle had managed to find one of her most eligible bachelor friends to present to Ziva for approval. Jason, a 6'4, green-eyed orthopedic surgeon with a face and body that had made Ziva forget her own name for a few moments, had greeted Ziva and Tony when they arrived at Michelle's apartment to ask follow-up questions after their initial interview. While Michelle had deftly steered Tony into her living room to answer his important questions, Ziva had found herself hovering in the hallway with Jason and fielding first date-type questions about her background and hobbies. While flattered (the man was _seriously _hot), Ziva had not been interested. And not just because she was technically at work and knew that as soon as they got back in the car, Tony would tease her mercilessly for it (except that, oddly, he hadn't). She was also not looking for dates with random doctors with overly developed forearm muscles and easy smiles.

She thought she had made this clear to Michelle. But if she is now calling Ziva _after_ the case is over, perhaps Ziva has not made it clear enough. She resists the urge to bang her head against her desk, and instead responds to the woman's greeting politely.

"Hello, Michelle. What can I do for you?"

"I'm sorry to bother you," she says, and she sounds like she means it. "I know you've made an arrest and the investigation is over, but I was wondering if you would have time to meet me for ten minutes?"

Her reference to the case concerns Ziva enough to agree to meet. If she has withheld information that could have bearing on the outcome of the case, Ziva wants to know about it. "Of course," she replies. "Right now? I can come to you."

"No," Michelle says quickly. "I'm near you. Can I meet you outside your building in five minutes?"

"Yes. I will see you soon."

She hangs up her cell phone and looks around. Gibbs is upstairs with Vance, McGee is downstairs with Abby, and Tony is…MIA. She doesn't recall seeing him leave, but assumes he is around somewhere. She reaches into her drawer for a Post-It note and scrawls a quick message with regard to her whereabouts before slapping it on his computer monitor. She arms herself with her gun despite the fact that she is not leaving the grounds of the Navy Yard, but leaves her badge in her drawer. A quick look out the window at the grey sky has her putting on her winter coat, and then she grabs a few dollars out of her purse before she heads to the elevator. No matter how this conversation goes, dealing with overly friendly Michelle encourages caffeine dependency.

Michelle is standing by a memorial plaque on the lawn in front of the NCIS building when Ziva comes down. She smiles easily as Ziva approaches, and doesn't look at all like she has new information to impart. Ziva smiles but approaches with caution.

"I hope I'm not interrupting you," she says by way of greeting.

She is, but Ziva shakes her head. "Of course not. Do you mind walking with me to the coffee cart?"

"No, I could use one myself."

Ziva nods and leads her in the direction of the nearest java vendor. After they walk a few paces in silence, Ziva forces the conversation along. "Did you have more information about the case?"

Michelle blinks at her in confusion before shaking her had and waving the suggestion away. "No, no," she says. "I told you everything I know about that. Several times over, if I recall correctly."

Ziva smiles with what she hopes looks like understanding. "Yes, well we do need to be thorough about these things."

"Sure," she says breezily. A bird flying overhead catches her gaze and she follows its path for a few moments. Ziva is about to ask her to get to the reason for her visit when Michelle lays her cards on the table. "I really wanted to talk to you about Agent DiNozzo."

Ziva sighs to herself. This is not the first time a witness has shown inappropriate interest in her partner. Of course he is attractive, but the gun and the protectiveness can be a killer when people are at their most vulnerable. Not that Michelle has ever come across as vulnerable. Or available, for that matter. "Are you interested in him?" she asks. "You have a boyfriend, and Agent DiNozzo is not really the type to come between—"

"Oh, _God no_," Michelle cuts in, clutching at her chest as if the suggestion is offensive. "I'm not interested in him. Like, _at all_. I love Ryan to death, and Agent DiNozzo is _not_ my type."

Ziva feels a flash of inappropriate defensiveness on behalf of her partner but lets it fall by the wayside. "Okay," she says, framing the word as a question about why any of this is important.

Michelle grins and then nudges her with her shoulder as if the two of them have been BFFs forever. "But I just wanted to give you a little push."

For the life of her, Ziva cannot work out where this is going. "I'm sorry?"

Michelle stops her with a light hand on her forearm and tries to explain herself. "When Agent DiNozzo and me were talking at my house the other day, you know when you were talking to Jason?" She pauses until Ziva nods. "We kind of talked about you and him. Agent DiNozzo, I mean. Not you and Jason. Although it started out like that…" She shakes her head to avoid getting carried away with the point. "Me and DiNozzo were talking about _you_ and DiNozzo. You know?"

Ziva feels her brow furrow as she tries to follow the story. She has done a lot of frowning this week in Michelle's presence, and makes a mental note to check her forehead tonight for new wrinkles. "What?"

"He kept looking at you," Michelle tells her excitedly, as if this information is cause for bouncing and squealing. "Like he was keeping an eye on whether there was a spark with you and Jason."

It begins to make sense now, and although she feels a small flutter of something in the realm of excitement in her stomach, Ziva is actually familiar with this misconception. She shakes her head and puts out a hand in an effort to calm Michelle down. "Michelle, he was keeping an eye on me because that is what we do as partners when we are separated."

It's a perfectly logical explanation that Michelle does not have time for. "No, I called him out on having a thing for you," she says, and Ziva has to make a conscious effort to stop her mouth from falling open at how brazen this woman can be. "His mouth said no, but his eyes and body language were practically a flashing neon sign of _yes_. And I think it's more than a teensy bit obvious that you have a thing for him, too," she went on, not pausing for breath. "More than a thing. You guys are crazy about each other, but you probably haven't talked about it." She finally pauses to take Ziva's hand and smile with delight. "So, I just want you to know that I've already raised it with him, and now I'm raising it with you. That awkward part where you don't know whether your feelings are reciprocated has been taken care of by yours truly, so now all you have to do is sit down with each other. Okay?"

For a good five seconds, Ziva is at a loss over what to do or say. Strangling Michelle for getting involved in business that is _definitely_ not her own will only get Ziva sent to prison. So will shooting her. Denial will be wasted on her, but Ziva is not willing to share her long-hidden heart's desires with a woman she has known for a week, and who will not form any part of her life after this conversation. She decides to neither confirm nor deny, and instead puts the conversation back on Michelle.

With her most practiced poker face, she asks, "Why do you care so much about how two people you don't know feel about each other?"

Michelle smiles dreamily in a way that makes Ziva want to growl at her. "Because. I firmly believe that the whole world would be a much better place if everyone was just a little happier with their lives. You know? If people were just brave enough to go after what they really wanted and didn't let their fears and self-doubt hold them back."

This is the part where Ziva would normally roll her eyes at such idealistic, Disney-like crap. But Michelle seems so genuine that Ziva can only muster a smidge of pity for her.

"I mean, people would be less angry and less bitter and less likely to take all their frustrations and regrets out on other people," Michelle goes on. "Because everyone would be calmer. More fulfilled with the hand they've been dealt. And people like you and DiNozzo, who look after everyone else and track down the people who are so unhappy with their lives that they went off the deep end and did something terrible? You guys are the most deserving of happiness." He puts her hand back on Ziva's arm and smiles sweetly. "I really think you should let yourself go for it."

She seems to want Ziva to say something in reply. Something like, _'My God! You're right! I must run to his arms right now!'_ But all Ziva can to is stare at Michelle dumbly and try to process the turn her afternoon has taken.

Michelle takes her silence for acceptance, and steps in to hug her tightly. "A lot of people never find their soul mate, and they settle for the best of a bad bunch," Michelle says over her shoulder. "The worst thing you can do for yourself is to know who your soul mate is, but let them go." She gives Ziva's stiff frame another squeeze before letting go and smiling at her excitedly. "Take a chance, okay? It'll be worth it."

Still suffering the effects of shock, Ziva manages to grunt in a halfway affirmative manner. To her utter relief it is enough for Michelle, who gives her a wave and then leaves her alone on the lawns of NCIS, wondering what the hell just happened and what, if anything, she should do about it.

For the rest of the afternoon, Ziva stews over what happened. She doesn't know why that particular conversation about her relationship with her partner—simply the latest in a long line of similar conversations—sticks in her head so much. And she resents that it is a woman as annoying as Michelle Lancaster who has succeeded in getting beneath her skin. But she has. Thoughts about the undefined relationship end up taking precedence over her work up until McGee pushes back from his desk at 1800 and says goodnight, and she realizes how much work time she has lost. She manages to switch her brain back to work mode as Tony and then Gibbs head home, and in the next few hours in the falling darkness and rising silence of the bullpen she almost catches up.

It is almost 2100 when a figure moves into her peripheral vision. She swings her eyes from her computer screen to find Tony standing by her desk and regarding her with a frown that is either curious or suspicious. Or perhaps both.

"What are you still doing here?" he asks, as if it is _her_ presence that should be called into question. Wasn't he the one who went home two hours ago?

Ziva shrugs and provides a mostly honest answer. "Catching up. I want this done by the weekend." She returns his curious/suspicious frown. "Why did you come back?"

"I forgot my phone." He crosses to his desk, lifts up a few pieces of paper and a file, and retrieves the cell phone before returning to her. He takes a seat on her desk on top of an open file by her elbow and cocks his head as he looks down at her. This time, his expression is definitely curious. "Are you okay? You've been kind of introspective all afternoon and it makes me uncomfortable."

She had been unaware that he had been paying close attention to her mood, and she appreciates it. But she shakes her head and waves his concern away. "Yes, I am fine."

He stares her down, but when she does not elaborate he lets it slide. Sort of. "Okay," he finally says. "Are you going to hang around much longer?"

She gestures at her computer. "I want to finish this."

"So…five minutes?" he asks. "Half an hour?"

Her expression asks why he wants to know, and Tony gently pushes the back of his hand against her arm.

"Come for a drink," he implores. "You can tell me what your problem is and I'll end up feeling better about myself." He punctuates the teasing statement with a charming smile that acknowledges that he walks a fine line.

Ziva crosses her arms and leans all the way back in her chair as she fights not to smile back. "Why would my misfortune make you smile?"

"It doesn't," he admits with a shrug. "But it'd make me happier if you were happier, so come on." He stands and tugs on her sleeve. "I'll buy you a mojito and we can do some tequila shots and play some pool and then we can sit in a booth and I'll eat nachos while you pour your heart out. It'll be great."

His sales pitch is sweet but weak, and if it were any other night she would probably dig her heels in at this point and tell him to leave her be. But she has been thinking about him and _them_ and what could be all afternoon. Michelle's talk about love and making the world a better place has given her dangerous confidence that she hopes she will not come to regret.

"How about just coffee and a walk?" she suggests.

Tony overacts his suspicion. "You're passing on a mojito? My God, there really is something terribly wrong." He picks her handbag up off the floor and hands it to her. "Fortunately, I'm flexible. Let's go."

* * *

><p>Somehow they end up on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial with steaming coffee and a chocolate croissant each. It hasn't snowed in a week but they are both in heavy coats, scarves and gloves. If they had any sense they would find a warm place indoors to make their own, but Ziva feels the panic over what she thinks she might be about to do closing in on her, and she wants wide open space around her. If it goes bad she can make a very quick exit. She knows she can out run him.<p>

A gust of wind blows across their faces and Tony inhales sharply and curls in on himself just a little. He doesn't complain, though, and that is unlike him. She wonders why he is willing to put up with this cruel and unusual torture tonight. It can't possibly be because he is worried about what has been worrying her, can it? She considers this as she stares at the lid of her coffee cup and Tony shoves the remainder of his croissant into his mouth. She knows he cares for her. Cares deeply, in fact. He has made it clear to her over and over again, even when she probably has not been as forthcoming about her feelings for him in return. But he must know how she feels, surely.

Right?

He interrupts her latest trip down the spiral of emotional distress by bumping her shoulder with his. "Okay. Tell me what's on your mind. Pour it all out before we freeze."

This should be her moment to make sure he knows how she feels. But she flinches. "There is nothing to pour out," she lies. "I am empty inside."

The comment turns his head, and she looks up to find him pinning her with his serious, curious investigator face. He rarely turns it on her, but it makes her skin prickle in equal parts anticipation and fear. He is determined to push the issue, and she doesn't think that her usual tricks to get him off her case will work. For God's sake, he is already sitting in the freezing cold with her. That is not the act of a man who will give up.

"What did Michelle say to you?" he finally asks.

She feels her surprise show on her face. "Why do you think Michelle is involved?"

Two investigators trying to out-investigate each other. It could go on for hours. But she doesn't think either of them could withstand the cold for that long.

"Because you were normal before you went to meet her today," Tony tells her with just a hint of exasperation. "And then you got all Gibbs-y."

Her brows pull together in a frown. "Gibbs-y?" she echoes.

"Quiet and thoughtful," he explains. "Michelle gave you some kind of information that sent you into a spin. But it doesn't have to do with the case or you would have said something as soon as you got back."

She buys time by taking a bite out of the corner of her croissant and then sipping her coffee. How are you supposed to begin a conversation that could change the course of your life? Her stomach rolls with nerves as she takes a steady breath, prays to God to save her, and then starts being totally honest with him for the first time since she met him.

"What do you think about soul mates?" she asks, lowering her voice in respect to the privacy of the conversation. "I know we talked about it very briefly a few years ago, and you did not seem to accept the idea."

Tony's expression is utterly impassive for a few moments before he finally looks away with something akin to awe. "Hmm," he grunts as he either thinks it over or considers how to tell her gently that he's not going to freeze his ass off any longer over a topic so intangible. "Do I think there's one person out there for everyone?" he asks himself aloud. "No. I guess I don't." He meets her gaze again, and she's not sure that she's particularly disappointed in the answer. "I like the idea of it," he admits. "And I think there is someone for everyone. Just not _one_ someone."

Ziva nods. She doesn't disagree with his position, exactly. She doesn't agree with it either, though. She thinks she falls somewhere in the middle. Whatever that means.

Tony clears his throat. "Did Michelle want to tell you that hot Dr Jason is your soul mate?" He throws her a light smile as Ziva's throat closes. He is acting like it wouldn't bother him. It is something they both do when the other has a potential romantic interest. Act like it's no big deal when really, jealousy rears its head. She is sick of the act.

"No," she assures him. She throws him a self-conscious smile and then averts her gaze like a coward. "She said you are."

The silence that follows is a torture that Ziva has not experienced before. She knows there is a saying about wanting the ground to open up to swallow you whole, and with every second that passes without a response from him she understands the idiom more and more. She wants to look at him to read his expression, but she doesn't dare move. She feels almost paralyzed with fear. And sudden loathing. Why on earth would she do this to herself? To him? To _them_ and the team?

Finally, his voice comes back at her, weak and raspy. "And that's why you've been frowning so hard?"

Her eyes snap to his face in alarm until she realizes that he's trying to make a joke to calm the waters. She sighs hard, and then winces at the pain of panic in her chest that suddenly flares. "No, Tony," she says softly.

Another pause follows, and she puts the rest of her coffee and croissant down on the step beside her. Her stomach is now so tight that she won't be finishing either tonight.

"Okay," he says evenly. "What do you think, Ziva?"

She thinks this is hopeless and too hard. She drops her forehead to her hands and groans quietly to herself as she contemplates everything she will now have to fit into her schedule tomorrow. Like quitting, changing her name and moving to Australia.

His gloved hand briefly touches her knee. "Just tell me," he says, like it's no big deal.

She lifts her head and squares her shoulders. "I am not sure," she admits, and then pretends that she possesses the same natural, God-given ability to be calm and brave in the most difficult of circumstances that he has. "I do know that you are my best friend. I know that you form a vital part of my soul. And a lot of what makes me _me_ these days, has to do with you." She pauses and then frowns over what she thinks may be a stumble. "I do not think that makes sense."

She hears him draw a breath. "Yes, it does," he tells her with a thick voice that gives her hope that she is doing the right thing.

Ziva forces her eyes to his face. "I know that I like that," she tells him. "And I have hope that it will be the case…well, indefinitely."

She holds her breath and her heart pounds harder than ever before in her chest as she once again waits for a response from him. This time, he doesn't make her wait.

"Me too."

Rationally she knows that it isn't confirmation that he wants to change anything between them. But it gives her enough encouragement to make a game-changing statement.

"I know that I love you," she tells him softly. Her nerves are going crazy and she thinks she might be sick as she waits for him to look at her. It takes him a moment, but when he does there is a small but heartfelt smile on his face that makes her nerve endings buzz. She allows herself to return a half smile.

"Wow," he says, before his smile grows. "When I woke up this morning, I didn't think today would be the day."

Her smile fades because she doesn't know what he's talking about. "What?"

He sways closer to her. "The day it all came out," he explains. "That we got there."

Got there? As in _there_ there? She knows she wants to be there—stupid Michelle was right about that—but she is still not entirely sure that _he_ is on board with all of this. "Have we?"

He puts his hand over hers. Despite two layers of gloves, she still feels the warmth of him. "I really don't know that I believe in soul mates," he repeats. "But I do believe that you and me…we're meant to stay together." He pauses and seems to struggle to find a way to explain himself. "It's, um, destiny or something."

Despite her fear and nerves and self-doubt, she has to chuckle at him. "You believe in destiny, but not soul mates?"

Tony smiles with a healthy dose of self-awareness. "I don't know. I'm complex." He lifts a shoulder and lets it drop. "I'm just saying that I know we're supposed to be here. And I know you're my best friend." He pauses. "And that I love you, too."

They hold gazes as she lets that sink in. Lets herself believe it. And then, despite the freezing wind that whips around her, her whole body grows hot. She thinks she might even be blushing as she breaks into a wider smile under Tony's warming eyes.

"Really," is all she can think to say.

He nods and eyes her mouth. "Yep."

Well. All right, then.

His fingers curl around her hand and the touch spurs her into action. She leans into him and he meets her halfway for a kiss that tastes of coffee and chocolate. Two of her favorite things. He lifts his gloved hand to warm her cheek, and she thinks she could melt into him if not for the strong gust of icy wind that snakes its way between them. She pulls back with a gasp that is almost certainly because of the cold. But maybe a little bit because of him.

He gives her a knowing look. "Okay. We've got to get out of here _now_, Ziva," he says. "Because if we stay here any longer my ass is going to be too frozen to do anything but fall asleep when we get home."

_When we get home_. He is making an assumption that they are going together, and that is just fine with her. "Come back to my place," she tells him. "For a _nightcap,_ as they say in your movies_._"

His tongue finds the inside of his cheek, and he looks at her curiously. "You know that when they say _nightcap_ in movies, they don't actually mean tea or hot chocolate, right?"

She frowns, thinking she might have it wrong. "Yes," she says slowly. "I always thought they meant they wanted to have sex."

He looks fleetingly amused. "Yes," he confirms. "That's what they mean."

She nods firmly. "Right. So come back to my place for a nightcap, Tony."

He stands up quickly and pulls her to her feet after him. "Good plan."

Ziva was full of them. And she couldn't wait to start sharing all of them with him.

* * *

><p><strong>There you go. All done. There will be no sequel. If you want to read the sex, go read my story <strong>_**Orison**_**. Good night. **


End file.
